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THE 
[ASQUE  OF  POETS 

EDITED  BY 

EDWARD 


O'BRIEN 


1  4  1918 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

William  Nauns  Ricks 


AUG  1  4  1918 
W.  N.   F?!    -KS 


AUG  1  5  1918 
N.  RICKS 


a  A  */>  r 


THE  MASQUE  OF  POETS 


THE 
MASQUE  OF  POETS 

A  Collection  of  New  Poems  by- 
Contemporary  American  Poets 


EDITED  BY 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  1918, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


GIFT 


9/S" 

0/3 


TO 
J.-F.  RAICHE 


501 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xi 

NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING. 

Conrad  Aiken 1 

A  PILGRIMAGE.    Nancy  Barr  Mavity    ....  9 

THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

William  Rose  Benet 12 

EAST  SIDE  MOVING  PICTURE  THEATRE  —  SUNDAY. 

Maxwell  Bodenheim 17 

FACTORY-GIRL.     Maxwell  Bodenheim  ....  18 

A  CHRONICLE.     William  Stanley  Braithwaite    .  19 

THE  WET  WOODS. 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite 20 

TWENTY  STARS  TO  MATCH  His  FACE. 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite 21 

THE  NAME.    Anna  Hempstead  Branch   ...  22 

THE  PLUME.    Abbie  Farwell  Brown  ....  27 

CALYPSO.     Amelia  Josephine  Burr 29 

I  COME  AND  Go.     Witter  Bynner 31 

MOMENT  MUSICALE.    Bliss  Carman   ....  32 

ALEXANDRA.    Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 33 

CLOUDS.     Lincoln  Colcord 36 

THE  RETURN  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 37 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Duo.     Olive  Tilford  Dargan 44 

FATHERLAND.    Olive  Tilford  Dargan  ....  48 

PRAYER  BEFORE  SUMMER. 

Arthur  Davison  Ficke 51 

NEAR  YARMOUTH.    John  Gould  Fletcher  ...  53 

ROOMS.     John  Gould  Fletcher 55 

AFTERNOON.    Fannie  Stearns  Gifford  ....  57 

OVERSEAS.    Abbie  Carter  Goodloe      ....  59 

ANIMALS.     Alfred  Kreymborg 63 

PRELUDES.     Alfred    Kreymborg 65 

OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR  CHILDREN. 

Vachel   Lindsay 69 

THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE.    A  my  Lowell  .     .  73 

SHORE  GRASS.    Amy  Lowell 81 

SMELLS.     Christopher  Morley 82 

AN  APRIL  SEQUENCE.    Edward  J.  O'Brien  .     .  83 

IN  LATE  SPRING.    Charles  L.  O'Donnell  ...  87 

EXILES.     Vincent  O'Sullivan 88 

FAR  UP  IN  THE  MYSTERY  HILLS. 

Vincent    O'Sullivan 89 

HE  SINGS  BECAUSE  His  WIFE  HAS  GONE  OUT  OF 

THE   HOUSE.     Vincent   O'Sullivan    .     .      .  90 

RAINY  DAY.     Vincent  O'Sullivan 92 

DEFEAT.     William  Alexander  Percy  ....  93 

To  BUTTERFLY.     William  Alexander  Percy  .     .  95 

CHLOE  TO  AMARYLLIS.    Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  96 

GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson V° 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

DRUMNOTES.    Carl  Sandburg 116 

AN  OLD  INN  BY  THE  SEA.  Odell  Shepard  .  .117 
THE  FLOCK  AT  EVENING.  Odell  Shepard  .  .119 
THE  FIRST  FOOD.  George  Sterling  ....  122 

LLEWELLYN,  PRINCE  OF  CAMBRIA. 

Charles   Wharton  Stork 124 

AT  MIDNIGHT.    5am  Teasdale 131 

THE  EMBERS  SPEAK.  Thomas  Walsh  ....  132 
LAGGARD.  Margaret  Widdemer 133 


INTRODUCTION 

When  "  The  Masque  of  Poets  "  was  first  conceived, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  might  fulfil  a  purpose  in 
American  literature  by  serving  to  define  the  quality 
of  the  best  contemporary  poetry  as  poetry,  rather 
than  as  the  literary  production  of  writers  whose  work 
was  sought  by  the  public  because  of  the  personalities 
which  produced  it.  This  series  of  poems  has  been 
gathered  in  order  to  restore  in  some  measure  to  our 
day  that  Elizabethan  spirit  of  comradeship  and 
friendly  rivalry  which  produced  poetry  because  it 
had  to  sing  rather  than  because  it  sought  the  applause 
of  its  personal  admirers. 

Many  of  us  are  inclined  to  believe  falsely  that 
poetry,  and  the  spirit  which  produces  it,  is  a  more  so 
phisticated  art  than  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Eliza- 

xi 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

bethans.  But  I  think  that  America  today  reflects  very 
much  the  same  spirit  of  adventurous  seeking  that 
England  knew  more  than  three  centuries  ago,  and  that 
this  spirit  will  not  find  its  happiest  fulfilment  till  it 
becomes  less  personal  in  its  consciousness  of  a  public, 
and  more  disinterested  in  its  practice  as  an  art. 

That  the  American  poets  who  have  contributed  to 
"  The  Masque  of  Poets  "  are  disinterested,  is  proven  by 
their  desire  to  remain  anonymous  when  these  poems 
were  first  published.     Elizabethan  poets  sang  out  of 
pure  joy  and  good  fellowship,  and  the  finest  American 
achievement  of  the  last  decade  has  been  born  of  sim 
ilar  joy  and  good  fellowship.    I  should  like  to  see 
American    poetry    published    anonymously  in  such 
anthologies  as  this  and  left  for  judgment  to  the  public 
irrespective  of  authors'  signatures.    That  the  authors 
of  these  poems  now  disclose  their  parenthood  is  in 
order  that  the  public  may  satisfy  itself  that  good  work 
can  receive  acknowledgment  and  interested  recognition 
for  its  own  sake,  as  these  poems  have  been  welcomed 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

during  their  serial  appearance  in  "  The  Bookman." 
In  "The  Masque  of  Poets"  many  schools  and 
many  ideals  now  meet  for  the  first  time  on  common 
ground,  and  diverse  points  of  view  only  serve  to  reveal 
the  essential  unity  of  inspiration  behind  what  we  are 
all  trying  to  do.  Much  discussion  has  raged  during 
the  past  three  years  or  more  as  to  whether  what  Amer 
ica  is  producing  is  new  poetry  or  old  poetry.  The 
best  solution  that  I  can  find  is  that  it  is  just  poetry. 
Magic,  passion,  and  truth  are  what  poets  have  always 
sought,  and  what  all  poets  who  are  now  sincere  are 
still  seeking.  Interests  change,  as  fashions  change, 
but  the  stuff  of  poetry  is  always  the  same,  and  the 
circle  which  begins  with  the  Greek  anthology  is  com 
pleted  in  Imagism,  as  the  circle  which  begins  with 
Crabbe  and  Ebenezer  Jones  is  completed  in  the  social 
poetry  of  America  to-day.  What  is  new  in  American 
poetry  is  fresh  experience  of  life,  and  I  find  this  as 
richly  expressed  in  the  traditional  poetry  of  Anna 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

Hempstead  Branch  as  in  the  supposedly  radical 
poetry  of  Amy  Lowell.  These  statements  should  be 
platitudes,  but  they  are  so  universally  denied  nowa 
days,  that  I  suppose  I  should  claim  them  as  canons  of 
"  the  new  criticism."  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  reader 
of  this  anthology  will  find  herein  whatever  is  most 
authentic  and  genuinely  felt  in  contemporary  Ameri 
can  poetry. 

I  do  not  claim  completeness  for  this  series  of  poems, 
but  I  do  claim  that  it  is  representative.  I  regret  the 
absence  of  several  contributors  whose  contributions  to 
the  spiritual  life  of  our  day  have  been  notable,  but 
the  war  has  had  a  numbing  effect  on  many  minds,  and 
in  other  cases  poets  have  recently  published  volumes 
containing  every  manuscript  that  they  cared  to  print. 

Five  years  from  now  it  would  be  interesting  to 
repeat  this  experiment,  and  I  think  the  results  would 
prove  that  very  little  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
substance  of  our  poetry,  though  the  manner  of  its 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

weaving  might  be  different.  As  this  series  now  stands, 
I  commend  it  to  the  public  who  are  adventurers  all  in 
life  as  our  poets  are  adventurers  in  art. 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN. 
South  Yarmouth,  Mass., 
New  Year's  Day,  1918. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  POETS 


NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING 

CONRAD  AIKEN 

I 

Moonlight  silvers  the  shaken  tops  of  trees, 

Moonlight  whitens  the  lilac-shadowed  wall; 

And  through  the  soft-starred  evening  fall 

Clearly  as  if  through  enchanted  seas 

Footsteps  passing  an  infinite  distance  away, 

In  another  world,  and  another  day. 

Moonlight  turns  the  purple  lilacs  to  blue, 

Moonlight  leaves  the  fountain  hoar  and  old, 

Moonlight  whitens  the  sleepy  dew, 

And  the  boughs  of  elms  grow  green  and  cold.  .  .  . 

Our  footsteps  echo  on  gleaming  stones; 

The  leaves  are  stirred  to  a  jargon  of  muted  tones.  .  .  , 

This  is  the  night  we  have  kept,  you  say; 

This  is  the  moonlight  night  that  never  will  die.  .  .  . 

Let  us  return  there,  let  us  return,  you  and  I, — 

Through  the  grey  streets  our  memories  retain 

Let  us  go  back  again. 


CONRAD  AIKEN 

ii 

Mist  goes  up  from  the  river  to  dim  the  stars, 
The  river  is  black  and  cold;  so  let  us  dance 
To  a  tremor  of  violins  and  troubled  guitars, 
And  flare  of  horns,  and  clang  of  cymbals,  and  drums; 
And  strew  the  glimmering  floor  with  petals  of  roses 
And  remember,  while  rich  music  yawns  and  closes, 
With  a  luxury  of  pain,  how  silence  comes.  .  .  . 
Yes,  we  have  loved  each  other,  long  ago; 
We  moved  like  wind  to  a  music's  ebb  and  flow 

At  a  phrase  from  the  violins  you  closed  your  eyes, 

And  smiled,  and  let  me  lead  you  ...  how  young  we 
were! 

Waves  of  music  beneath  us  dizzied  to  rise. 

Your  hair,  upon  that  music,  seemed  to  stir.  .  .  . 

Let  us  return  there,  let  us  return,  you  and  I. 

Through  changeless  streets  our  memories  retain 

Let  us  go  back  again. 

[2] 


NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING 

HI 

Mist  goes  up  from  the  rain-steeped  earth,  and  clings 
Ghostly  with  lamplight  among  drenched  maple  trees, 
We  walk  in  silence,  and  see  how  the  lamplight  flings 
Fans  of  shadow  upon  it  ...  the  music's  mournful 

pleas 

Die  out  behind  us,  the  door  is  closed  at  last, 
A  net  of  silver  silence  is  softly  cast 
Over  our  dreams  .  .  .  slowly  and  softly  we  walk, 
Quietly,  with  delicious  pause,  we  talk, 
Of  foolish  trivial  things,  of  life  and  death, 
Time  and  forgetfulness,  and  dust  and  truth, — 
Lilacs  and  youth. 

You  laugh,  I  hear  the  after-taken  breath, 
You  darken  your  eyes  and  turn  away  your  head 
At  something  I  have  said  — 
Some  tremulous  intuition  that  flew  too  deep, 
And  struck  a  plangent  chord  .  .  .  to-night,  to-night, 
You  will  remember  it  as  you  fall  asleep, 
[  3  ] 


CONRAD  AIKEN 

Your  dream  will  suddenly  blossom  with  sharp  de 
light.  .  .  . 

Good-night!  you  say.  .  .  . 

The  leaves  of  the  lilac  softly  dip  and  sway, 

The  purple  spikes  of  bloom 

Nod  their  sweetness  upon  us,  and  lift  again, 

Your  white  face  turns  away, —  I  am  caught  with 
pain, — 

And  silence  descends  .  .  .  and  the  dripping  of  dew 
from  the  eaves 

And  jewelled  points  of  leaves. 

IV 

I  walk  in  a  pleasure  of  sorrow  along  the  street 
And  try  to  remember  you  ...  the  slow  drops  patter, 
The  mist  upor.  the  lilacs  has  made  them  sweet, 
I  brush  them  with  my  sleeve,  the  cool  drops  scatter, 
And  suddenly  I  laugh  .  .  .  and  stand  and  listen 
As  if  another  had  laughed  ...  a  fragrant  gust 
Rustles  the  laden  leaves,  the  wet  spikes  glisten, 
[4] 


NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING 
A  shower  of  drops  goes  down  on  stones  and  dust. 
And  it  seems  as  though  it  were  you  who  had  shaken 

the  hough, 

And  spilled  the  fragrance  —  I  pursue  your  face  again, 
It  grows  more  vague  and  lovely,  it  eludes  me  now. 
I  remember  that  you  are  gone,  and  drown  in  pain. 
Something  there  was  I  said  to  you,  I  recall, 
Something,  just  as  the  music  seemed  to  fall, 
That    made    you    laugh,    and    burns    me    still    with 

pleasure.  .  .  . 
What    were    the    words  —  the    words    like    dripping 

fire?  .  .  . 

I  remember  them  now,  and  smile,  and  in  sweet  leisure 
Rehearse  the  scene,  more  exquisite  than  before, 
And  you  more  beautiful,  and  I  more  wise.  .  .  . 
Lilacs,  and  spring,  and  night,  and  your  clear  eyes, 
And  you,  in  white,  by  the  darkness  of  a  door.  .  .  . 
These  things,  like  voices  weaving  to  richest  music, 
Flow  and  fall  in  the  cool  night  of  my  mind, 
[5] 


CONRAD  AIKEN 
I   pursue   your   ghost  among  green   leaves  that  are 

ghostly, 

I  pursue  you,  but  cannot  find.  .  .  . 
And  suddenly,  with  a  pang  that  is  sweetest  of  all, 
I  become  aware  that  I  cannot  remember  you ; 
The  beautiful  ghost  I  knew 
Has  silently  plunged  in  the  shadows,  shadows  that 

stream  and  fall. 

V 

Let  us  go  in  and  dance  once  more 
On  the  dream's  glimmering  floor, 
Beneath  the  balcony  festooned  with  roses. 
Let  us  go  in  and  dance  once  more.  .  .  . 
The  door  behind  us  closes 

Against  an  evening  purple  with  stars  and  mist.  .  .  . 
Let  us  go  in  and  keep  our  tryst 
With  music  and  white  roses,  and  spin  around 
In  lazy  swirls  of  sound. 

Do  you  foresee  me,  married  and  grown  old?  .  .  . 
[6] 


NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING 

And  you,  who  smile  about  you  at  this  room 

Dizzy  with  whirling  dancers  —  is  it  foretold 

That  you  must  step  from  tumult  into  a  gloom, 

Forget  me,  love  another,  grow  white  and  cold? 

No,  you  are  Cleopatra,  fiercely  young, 

Laughing  upon  the  topmost  stair  of  night; 

Roses  upon  the  desert  must  be  flung, 

It  is  your  wish.  .  .  .  Above  us,  light  by  light, 

Weaves  the  delirious  darkness,  petals  fall, 

They  fall  upon  your  jewelled  hands,  they  tremble  upon 

your  hair, — 

And  music  breaks  in  waves  on  the  pillared  wall, 
And  you  are  Cleopatra,  and  do  not  care.  .  .  . 
And  so,  in  memory,  you  will  always  be  — 
Young,  and  foolish,  a  thing  of  dream  and  mist; 
And  so,  perhaps,  when  all  is  disillusioned, 
And  eternal  spring  returns  once  more, 
Bringing  a  ghost  of  lovelier  springs  remembered, 
You  will  remember  me. 

[  7  ] 


CONRAD  AIKEN 

VI 

Yet  when  we  meet  we  seem  in  silence  to  say, 

Pretending  serene  forgetfulness  of  our  youth, 

"  Do  you  remember  .  .  .  but  then,  why,  should  you 

remember!  .  .  . 

Do  you  remember  a  certain  day, 
Or  evening,  rather, —  spring  evening  long  ago, — 
We  talked  of  death,  and  love,  and  time,  and  truth.  .  .  . 
And  said  such  wise  things,  things  that  amused  us 

so  .  .  .? 
How    foolish   we   were,    who    thought    ourselves   so 

wise!  " 
And  then  we  laugh,  with  shadows  in  our  eyes. 


[8] 


A  PILGRIMAGE 

NANCY  BARR  MAVITY 
I  put  off  my  smoke-dimmed  garment, 

I  put  on  white  for  grey; 
For  I  would  go  on  pilgrimage 

At  the  opening  of  the  day ; 

To  a  nameless  saint,  whose  altar 
Is  hidden  I  know  not  where, 

To  be  healed  of  the  heavy  sickness 
My  soul  like  a  cloak  must  wear. 

The  dull  brown  road  before  me 
Like  a  fluttering  pennon  ran; 

And  the  tingling  dust  in  my  nostrils 
Smelled  sweeter  than  roses  can. 

The  wayside  shrines  were  many  — 
But  which  was  the  one  I  sought? 

One  was  of  ancient  branches 

With  murmuring  leaves  inwrought; 
[9] 


NAN  CLARK  BARR 
One  a  sun-dazzled  wheat  field 

Where  the  wind  made  a  shadow  road 
That  rippled  and  wavered  and  beckoned, 

And  in  streams  unchannelled  flowed. 

One  lay  where  the  moonlight-colour 
Of  oats,  green-silvered,  shone; 

And  one  where  the  purpling  clover 
Close  to  my  feet  had  grown. 

But  the  brown  road  fled  before  me, 

And  would  not  let  me  stay 
To  kneel  at  the  shrines  of  the  wayside, 

To  lift  up  my  heart  and  pray. 
\ 

So  who  was  the  saint,  I  know  not, 
Who  quiet  healing  wrought; 

For  the  road  that-had  turned  like  a  fancy, 
Lay  straight  as  an  iron  thought: 

[  10] 


A  PILGRIMAGE 
Led  back  to  my  house  of  labour, 

To  my  garment  of  smoke-dimmed  grey, 
And  home  from  my  pilgrimaging 

At  the  closing  of  the  day. 

But  lo!  It  was  girdled  with  sunshine 
(0  where  was  the  miracle  shrine?) 

And  my  garment  shone  as  the  rainbow, 
And  my  heart  sang  aloud,  for  a  sign! 


[Ill 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

WILLIAM   ROSE   BENET 

There  lived  a  lady  in  Milan 
Wrought  for  a  madness  unto  Man, 
A  fawn  II  Moro  could  not  tame; 
Her  beauty  unbedecked  with  pearls 
More  than  all  Beatrice's  girls, 
Her  eyes  a  secret  subtle  flame. 

Brocade  wherein  her  body  dressed 

Was  hallowed;  flowers  her  footstep  pressed 

Suspired  incense  ere  they  died. 

Her  father  mazed  with  alchemy 

Wrought  in  his  cellar  ceaselessly. 

She  lived  in  quiet,  gentle  pride. 

And  by  her  garden  in  his  hour 
Passed  Leonardo,  come  with  power 
From  Florence.     So  he  saw  her  face 
Bending  above  the  shrivelled  stalks 
[  12  ] 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

Of  autumn  on  the  garden  walks. 
And  Leonardo  drank  her  grace. 

She  was  as  if  a  sunset  were 
With  fresher  colours,  clearer  air, 
And  a  more  golden  coil  of  cloud. 
She  was  as  if  all  citherns  swooned 
With  one  rich  harmony  myriad-tuned, 
Haunting,  enchanting,  pure  and  proud. 

And  Leonardo  said,  "  Ladye, 

I  know  not  what  you  do  to  me 

Who  have  and  have  not,  seek  nor  find. 

The  sea-shell  and  the  falcon's  feather, 

Greece  and  the  rock  and  shifting  weather 

Have  taught  me  many  things  of  mind. 

"  My  heart  has  taught  me  many  things, 
And  so  have  emperors,  popes,  and  kings, 
And  so  have  leaves  and  green  May-flies; 
Yea,  I  have  learned  from  bird  and  beast, 
[  13  ] 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 
From  slouching  dwarf  and  ranting  priest. 
Yet,  in  the  end,  how  am  I  wise? 

"  Though  with  dividers  and  a  quill 
I  weave  some  miracle  of  will, — 
Say,  that  men  fly,—  though  I  design 
For  peace  or  war  a  thousand  things 
Gaining  applause  from  dukes  and  kings, — 
Though  soft  and  deft  my  colours  shine, 

"  Though  my  quick  wit  breed  thunderbolts 
I  may  not  loose  on  all  these  dolts, 
Things  they  are  babes  to  comprehend, — 
Though  from  the  crevice  in  stone  or  lime 
I  trace  grave  outlines  mocking  Time, — 
I  know  when  I  am  beaten,  Friend ! 

"  Say  that  there  lived  of  old  a  saint 
Even  Leonardo  dared  not  paint, 
Even  Leonardo  dared  not  draw, — 

[  14] 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

Too  perfect  in  her  breathing  prime 
For  colours  to  transmit  to  time 
Or  quill  attempt, — aye,  ev'n  in  awe! 

"  Say  this,  cold  histories,  and  say 
I  looked  not  on  her  from  this  day 
Lest  frenzied  I  destroy  my  art. 
0  golden  lily, —  how  she  stands 
Listening!     Beauty, —  ah,  your  hands, 
Your  little  hands  tear  out  my  heart! 

"  Do  you  not  know  you  are  so  fair, 
Brighter  than  springtime  in  the  air? 
What  says  your  mirror  to  your  mind?" 
"  Phantom,"  she  whispered,  "  Do  you  plead 
With  ghostly  gestures?  .  .  .  Ah,  indeed, 
Pity  a  lady  deaf  and  blind 

"  Since  birth !"  .  .  .  Then  Leonardo  turned 
Saluting,  though  the  sunset  burned 
[  15  ] 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 
In  nimbus  round  her, —  went  his  way 
In  daze,  repeating  "  God's  defect, 
Even  he!  —  and  masterpiece  elect!  " 
He  never  saw  her  from  that  day. 


[  16] 


EAST  SIDE  MOVING  PICTURE  THEATRE  — 
SUNDAY 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

An  old  woman  rubs  her  eyes 

As  though  she  were  stroking  children  back  to  life. 

A  slender  Jewish  boy  whose  forehead 

Is  tall,  and  like  a  wind-marked  wall, 

Restlessly  waits  while  leaping  prayers 

Clash  their  light-cymbals  within  his  eyes. 

And  a  little  hunchbacked  girl 

Straightens  her  back  with  a  slow-pulling  smile. 

(I  am  afraid  to  look  at  her  again.) 

Then  the  blurred,  tawdry  pictures   rush   across  the 

scene, 

And  I  hear  a  swishing  intake  of  breath, 
As  though  some  band  of  shy  rigid  spirits 
Were  standing  before  their  last  heaven. 


[  17] 


FACTORY-GIRL 

MAXWELL   BODENHEIM 

Why  are  your  eyes  like  dry  brown  flower-pods, 

Still,  gripped  by  the  memory  of  lost  petals? 

I  feel  that,  if  I  touched  them, 

They  would  crumble  to  falling  brown  dust, 

And  you  would  stand  with  blindness  revealed. 

Yet  you  would  not  shrink,  for  your  life 

Has  been  long  since  memorized, 

And  eyes  would  only  melt  out  against  its  high  walls. 

Besides,  in  the  making  of  boxes 

Sprinkled  with  crude  forget-me-nots, 

One  is  curiously  blessed  if  one's  eyes  are  dead. 


A  CHRONICLE 

WILLIAM   STANLEY   BRAITHWAITE 

All  about  the  blown  wind's  ways, 

Never  unbelieving, 
With  a  mellow,  antique  grace, 

And  triumphant  grieving, — 

Came  across  the  meadow, 
Went  beyond  the  hill, 

Thin  as  any  shadow, 
Passed  my  chronicle. 

Earth  writes  the  epitaph, 
Rain  and  leaves  wear  it :  — 

Eyes  to  see,  lips  to  laugh, 
Are  my  shadows  near  it. 


THE  WET  WOODS 

WILLIAM   STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 

This  path  leads  to  the  laurel, 
And  that,  winds  to  the  burn: 

Hemlocks,  pines,  and  birches, 
Know  the  one  that  I  turn. 

It  is  wet  in  the  woods  to-day, — 
And  perhaps,  the  sun  to-morrow, 

Shall  weave  its  gold,  while  away 
I  will  be  alone  with  sorrow. 


TWENTY  STARS  TO  MATCH  HIS  FACE 

WILLIAM   STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 

Twenty  stars  to  match  his  face, 
All  the  winds  to  blow  his  breath. 

In  the  dark  no  eye  can  trace 
Life  or  death. 

The  word  came,  and  out  he  went, 
Heard  the  unseen  flutterings 

Of  wings  that  showed  the  dream  he  sent, 
The  song  he  sings. 

Twenty  stars  to  match  his  face, 
The  sea-foam,  his  permanence  — 

There  is  no  wind  can  mark  his  place 
Here,  or  hence. 


[21  ] 


THE  NAME 

ANNA  HEMPSTEAD   BRANCH 

When  I  come  back  from  secret  dreams 

In  gardens  deep  and  fair, 
How  very  curious  it  seems  — 

This  mortal  name  I  bear. 

For  by  this  name  I  make  their  bread 
And  trim  the  household  light 

And  sun  the  linen  for  the  bed 
And  close  the  door  at  night. 

I  wonder  who  myself  may  be, 
And  whence  it  was  I  came  — 

Before  the  Church  had  laid  on  me 
This  frail  and  earthly  name. 

My  sponsors  spake  unto  the  Lord 
And  three  things  promised  they, 

Upon  my  soul  with  one  accord 
Their  easy  vows  did  lay. 
[  22  ] 


THE  NAME 
My  ancient  spirit  heard  them  not. 

I  think  it  was  not  there. 
But  in  a  place  they  had  forgot 

It  drank  a  starrier  air. 

Yes,  in  a  silent  place  and  deep  — 
There  did  it  dance  and  run, 

And  sometimes  it  lay  down  to  sleep 
Or  sprang  into  the  sun. 

The  Priest  saw  not  my  aureole  shine ! 

My  sweet  wings  saw  not  he ! 
He  graved  me  with  a  solemn  sign 

And  laid  a  name  on  me. 

Now  by  this  name  I  stitch  and  mend, 
The  daughter  of  my  home, 

By  this  name  do  I  save  and  spend 
And  when  they  call,  I  come. 
[  23  ] 


ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 
But  oh,  that  Name,  that  other  Name, 

More  secret  and  more  mine! 
It  burns  as  does  the  angelic  flame 

Before  the  midmost  shrine. 

Before  my  soul  to  earth  was  brought 

Into  God's  heart  it  came, 
He  wrote  a  meaning  in  my  thought 

And  gave  to  me  a  Name. 

By  this  Name  do  I  ride  the  air 
And  dance  from  star  to  star, 

And  I  behold  all  things  are  fair, 
For  I  see  them  as  they  are. 

I  plunge  into  the  deepest  seas, 
In  flames  I,  laughing,  burn. 

In  roseate  clouds  I  take  my  ease 
Nor  to  the  earth  return. 

It  is  my  beauteous  Name  —  my  own  — 
That  I  have  never  heard. 
[  24  ] 


THE  NAME 

God  keeps  it  for  Himself  alone, 
That  strange  and  lovely  word. 

God  keeps  it  for  Himself  —  but  yet 

You  are  His  voice,  and  so 
In  your  heart  He  is  calling  me, 

And  unto  you  I  go. 

Love,  by  this  Name  I  sing,  and  breathe 

A  fresh,  mysterious  air. 
By  this  I  innocently  wreathe 

New  garlands  for  my  hair. 

By  this  Name  I  am  born  anew 
More  beautiful,  more  bright. 

More  roseate  than  angelic  dew, 
Apparelled  in  delight. 

I'll  sing  and  stitch  and  make  the  bread 
In  the  wonder  of  my  Name, 

[25  ] 


ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 
And  sun  the  linen  for  the  bed 
And  tend  the  fireside  flame. 

By  this  Name  do  I  answer  yes  — 
Word  beautiful  and  true. 

By  this  I'll  sew  the  bridal  dress 
I  shall  put  on  for  you. 


[  26] 


THE  PLUME 

ABBIE    FARWELL    BROWN 

"  Here  is  a  gift!  "  the  Brownie  said, 

As  something  fell  on  the  little  maid's  head; 

"  A  golden  feather  with  silver  bars 

Of  the  Faraway  Bird  who  sings  to  the  stars ! 

A  beautiful  plume  to  use  as  you  will, 

Fortunate  Friend  on-top-of-the-Hill ! 

Fasten  it  into  your  curly  hair, — 

Love  will  follow  and  find  you  fair. 

Put  it  into  the  Magi's  hands, — 

They  will  pay  you  with  gold  and  lands. 

Feather  a  shaft  with  the  magic  thing, 

And  bring  down  Fame  with  a  crippled  wing. 

Other  wonders  the  plume  can  do, 

But  I  wouldn't  bother,  if  I  were  you!  " 

Now  the  queer  little  maid  on-top-of-the-Hill 
Clipped  the  plume  to  a  scratchy  quill, — 
The  golden  feather  with  silver  bars 
Of  the  Faraway  Bird  who  sings  to  the  stars! 

[  27  ] 


ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 
Then  she  wrote  and  wrote,  all  night,  all  day, 
The  curious  things  it  made  her  say, — 
Wonder-tales  and  whimsical  rimes, 
Faraway  deeds  of  Faraway  times; 
Told  for  the  clamouring  boys  and  girls, 
With  bangs  and  braids,  with  clips  and  curls. 
The  children  laughed  and  clapped  and  cried,- 
"  Tell  it  again!     Tell  more  beside!  " 
The  queer  little  maid  was  proud  and  glad ; 
And  this  was  the  good  of  the  gift  she  had, — 
The  magical  plume  of  the  Faraway  Bird. 

But  the  Brownie  sighed ;  for  never  a  word 
To  the  busy  house  on  the  hill-top  came, 
Of  flattering  love,  or  wealth,  or  fame. 


[  28] 


CALYPSO 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE   BURR 

Wanderer,  we  must  part  —  so  the  gods  decree. 

You  must  go  again  to  Ithaca. 

The  cold  green  waves  will  wash  you  of  the  memory 

of  me, 

Breaking  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca. 
Built  we  a  house  of  dreams,  beautiful  in  seeming, 
But  for  those  the  Thunderer  wakes  there  is  no  more 

dreaming. 

Go  now,  spread  your  sail,  turn  your  prow  to  sea  — 
Yonder  lies  your  way  to  Ithaca. 
Theirs  is  to  obey  whom  the  gods  command  — 
Holy  is  the  hearth  in  Ithaca. 

Home  and  harvest  are  waiting  for  your  hand 

Fruitful  are  the  fields  of  Ithaca. 

Love  the  life  you  chose  while  it  still  is  yours  for  living 
Lest  the  jealous  gods  recall  the  treasures  of  their  giving. 
Passes  our  dream  like  our  footprints  in  the  sand  — 
Granite  are  the  cliffs  of  Ithaca. 
[29] 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
/  have  sent  him  back  at  the  gods'  decree  — 
/  have  sent  him  back  to  Ithaca. 
Never  will  I  walk  again  beside  the  twilight  sea 
On  the  shore  that  looks  toward  Ithaca 
Lest  the  wind  should  bring  to  him  a  breath  of  days 

gone  by, 
Of  the  beauty  and  the  sorrow  of  his  madness,  that 

was  I  — 

Peace  to  him  and  his,  0  Zeus!     I  ask  no  more  of  thee. 
Peace  upon  that  home  in  Ithaca! 


[30  J 


I  COME  AND  GO 

WITTER  BYNNER 

I  come  and  go 

And  never  stay. 
I  pick  and  choose 

A  night,  a  day, 
I  find,  I  lose, 

I  laugh  along, 
I  will  not  know 

Right  things  from  wrong. 

I  pity  those 

Who  pity  me, 
I  ask  no  boon, 

But  being  free  .  .  . 
And  so  the  moon, 

My  polished  stone, 
Shines  and  shows 

I  lie  alone. 

[31  ] 


MOMENT  MUSICALE 

BLISS   CARMAN 

The  round  moon  hangs  above  the  rim 
Of  silent  and  blue  shadowed  trees, 

And  all  the  earth  is  vague  and  dim 
In  its  blue  veil  of  mysteries. 

On  such  a  night  one  must  believe 
The  Golden  Age  returns  again 

With  lyric  beauty,  to  retrieve 

The  world  from  dreariness  and  pain. 

And  down  the  wooded  aisles,  behold 
What  dancers  through  the  dusk  appear! 

Piping  their  rapture  as  of  old, 

They  bring  immortal  freedom  near. 

A  moment  on  the  brink  of  night 

They  tread  their  transport  in  the  dew, 

And  to  the  rhythm  of  their  delight, 
Behold,  all  things  are  made  anew! 
[  32  ] 


ALEXANDRA 

SARAH   N.    CLEGHORN 

Breasting  white  whirlwinds 

On  the  drift-bound  mountains, 

Challenging  the  sleet-edged 

March  wind's  mirth: 

Far  in  summer  woodlands 

Whelmed  in  the  storm  and  thunder 

(Fearless  filial  daughter 
Of  the  kind  brown  earth), 

0  the  bonny,  strong,  courageous  health  of  Alexandra ! 
Deep  thoughts,  wide  thoughts 
Fill  her  tranquil  musing, 
Make  her  clear  cheek  colour 
And  her  still  breast  rise: 
These  with  steadfast  labour, 
Skilled  and  single-hearted, 
Safe  she  founds  on  homely  soil, 
And  rears  them  to  the  skies! 

0  the  sword-bright,  reason-proving  mind  of  Alexandra ! 
[  33  ] 


SARAH  N.  CLEGHORN 
Robust  and  tender 
Is  her  home-grown  feeling; 
Swift  her  espousal, 
Of  the  kindmost's  part; 
Instinct  her  free  faith 
And  her  loyal  valour; 
Native  to  her  west-born, 
Fellow-caring  heart, 

Wide  as  heaven  and  warm  as  home,  the  heart  of  Alex 
andra! 

Far  forward-looking 
Is  her  candid  spirit, 
Is  her  gallant,  gracious, 
Calm  and  open  soul. 
Like  an  ox  for  service, 
Like  a  bird  for  freedom, 
Moves  her  lucid  purpose, 
Single  toward  its  goal, 

Such  the  spirit  high  and  fine  that  burns  in  Alexandra) 
[  34  ] 


ALEXANDRA 
Sayest  thou,  this  picture 
Paints  no  earthly  woman? 
Nay,  but  in  our  Valley 
Is  her  dwelling-place. 
Nay,  for  yester-even 
Did  I  walk  heside  her, 
Listened  to  her  low  voice, 
Looked  upon  her  face, 
Ay,  my  comrade  long  and  well-beloved,  Alexandra! 


[35] 


CLOUDS 

LINCOLN   COLCORD 

The  clouds  rise  over  the  high  mauntains, 
They  rise  over  the  rim  of  the  sea  ... 
While  I  was  looking  away,  the  first  one  rose. 
Swift,  swift,  swift, 

Still  like  birds,  silent  like  thoughts,  inexorable  like 
time  .  .  . 

I  have  tried  —  I  cannot  stop  them! 

It  was  all  light  a  while  ago  —  all  clear : 

Now  they  have  put  out  the  sky. 

I  should  not  have  looked  away. 


[  36] 


THE  RETURN  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

JEANNE  D'ARC 

Why  do  the  vales  of  Paradise 

Turn  very  France  before  my  eyes, 

With  linked  rivers,  chain  on  chain, 

Cool  Meuse  and  amber-sandaled  Aisne, 

Angelic  Oise  serenely  fleet, 

And  wayward  Rhone  on  winged  feet? 

There  gleams  the  Loire  through  lace  of  trees, 

Shod  as  of  old  with  silences. 

And  there  with  Paris  at  its  breast, 

The  white  Seine  lies  along  the  west, 

How  wistful ! 

Nay,  my  serious  Seine, 
Will  nothing  make  thee  smile  again? 
Has  any  gargoyle  peering  down 
From  Notre  Dame  with  hostile  frown 
Invaded  thy  still  dreams  at  night? 
Dost  thou  lament  the  lost  delight 
[  37  ] 


GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 
Of  years  long  gone? 

I  wonder  why 

Proud  Paris  veils  her  from  the  sky 
In  twilight  vesture  like  a  nun? 
I  wonder,  what  has  heaven  done? 
The  lights  are  dead,  the  land  is  grey, 
Like  ghosts  the  pale  roads  drift  away 
Into  the  North!     Oh,  I  would  see 
What  years  have  wrought  in  Domremy, 
And  how  great  Rheims  above  the  town 
Lifts  praying  hands!     I  must  go  down 
Among  my  people,  I  must  know 
What  makes  my  heart  remember  so, 
And  why  the  voices  cry  so  near, 
The  human  voices  that  I  hear! 

THE  MEN  OF  FRANCE 
Now  Mary  lend  thee  out  of  heaven 
For  dear  defence  of  rivers  seven, 
[38] 


THE  RETURN  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 
And  shattered  gateways  of  the  North! 
Angel  of  France,  oh,  lead  us  forth! 

JEANNE  D'ARC 

They  are  invaded !     They  have  need 
Of  my  heart's  faith!     Yea,  I  will  lead, 
But  can  they  follow  when  I  go 
Unseen  and  vague  as  winds  that  blow? 
Yet  shepherd  winds  control  the  day, 
To  make  the  poplars  lean  one  way, 
To  ruffle  rivers  into  gold, 
Herd  home  the  clouds  into  far  fold, 
And  tirelessly  evoke  the  shy 
Wild  iris  latent  in  the  sky! 
Can  my  wing'd  spirit  so  persuade 
Their  hearts  to  follow  unafraid? 

THE  MEN  OF  FRANCE 
Now  Michael  gird  thee  with  his  sword, 
To  thrust  aside  the  alien  horde, 
[  39] 


GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

To  bend  and  break  and  hurl  them  forth! 
Come  thou  and  lead  us  to  the  North! 
JEANNE  D'ARC 

Soldiers,  my  great  grey  horse  long  gone 
To  graze  the  meadows  of  the  dawn, 
Has  thriven  on  clear  asphodel, 
Till  you  shall  learn,  he  travels  well, 
And  victory  is  still  his  stride. 
You  see  me  not,  but  oh,  I  ride 
For  France,  and  mark  her  starry  goal, 
The  faith  and  freedom  of  the  soul! 
Do  you  but  follow  and  give  ear 
To  heavenly  voices  that  I  hear, 
Till  past  the  black  besieging  din 
And  whistling  menace  shrill  and  thin, 
Emerge  some  silvery  interval 
Of  vanished  bells  that  call  and  call. 
Forsaken  save  of  sun  and  stars, 
With  portals  blurred  by  brutal  scars, 
[  40  ] 


THE  RETURN  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 
With  towers  torn  and  windows  gone, 
'Tis  mighty  Rheims  that  cries  you  on ! 
Though  heaven  and  earth  be  withering, 
Her  ruined  bells  shall  sob  and  sing: 
Though  earth  and  heaven  be  blank  and  bare, 
You  shall  behold  her  standing  there 
With  wounded  arms  uplifted  high 
For  men  of  France  who  fight  and  die! 

THE  MEN  OF  FRANCE 
Now  Heaven  help  thee  understand 
The  peril  come  upon  our  land! 
Now  God  forgive  our  little  worth 
And  grant  thee  memory  of  earth! 

JEANNE  D'ARC 
I  do  remember  everything 
I  had  forgotten:  how  the  king 
For  all  my  pleading,  still  delayed, 
But  God's  own  angels  gave  me  aid. 
[  41  ] 


GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 
There  was  a  Chinon  nightingale 
That  sang  all  night,  "  You  will  not  fail!  " 
And  there  were  always  saintly  trees 
And  dim  old  flowery  villages, 
And  rain-pricked  pools  like  fretted  shields, 
And  sunny  hills,  and  mellow  fields, 
Oh,  there  was  France!     So  now  she  lies 
Appealing-sweet  before  my  eyes, 
Her  wide  flush  rivers  for  delight 
Her  spires  and  poplars  to  invite 
The  eyes  and  thoughts  toward  Heaven ! 

Men, 

I  fight  beside  you  once  again, 
As  those  brief  centuries  ago, 
Each  man  of  you  a  man  I  know! 
In  Paradise  I  have  not  seen 
Faces  more  steadfast  and  serene. 
Let  them  not  tear  the  temple  down 
That  holds  the  soul  of  Rouen  town, 
[42  ] 


THE  RETURN  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Nor  crush  the  lilies  Amiens  wears, 
Nor  those  fair  vines  along  the  stairs 
Of  Chartres,  where  some  hand  unknown 
Lured  leaf  and  fruit  from  silver  stone. 
This  sunward  hour  of  deepening  dawn 
Brings  glory  of  your  comrades  gone, 
And  Rheims'  lost  bells  are  ringing! 

THE  MEN  OF  FRANCE 

Hark! 
It  is  her  voice!    Jeanne  d'Arc!    Jeanne  d'Arc! 


[43] 


DUO 

OLIVE  TILFORD  DARGAN 

Woman  in  the  garden 
Where  the  angels  came; 
Nothing  yet  of  pardon, 
Nothing  yet  of  shame; 
Seraphs  in  her  honour 
To  the  gates  repair, — 
0,  the  sun  upon  her! 
0,  the  golden  air! 

Woman  in  the  green  ways, — 
Young  roots  are  sweet; 
In  and  out  the  glean-ways9 
Brown  nuts  at  feet; 
Planting,  weaving,  hoarding, 
Saving  from  the  wild, 
Not  for  self  or  lording, 
But  for  us  —  the  child. 

[44] 


DUO 

Woman  in  the  tower; 
Moat  and  wall  to  guard, 
The  rare,  white  lady-flower 
Blooming  for  her  lord, 
Whose  bright  sword  has  won  her 
From  all  knights  that  ride; 
His  to  serve  and  honour, — 
An  unfading  bride! 

Woman  'neath  the  master 

Of  the  feudal  day; 

For  the  bread  he  cast  her 

Paying  life  away 

To  him,  the  mighty  giver, 

Him,  her  soul  and  god! 

A  sword  for  who  would  save  her, 

And  for  her  the  rod! 

Now  by  fireside  singing! 
Here  at  last  is  home; 
[  45  ] 


OLIVE  TILFORD  DARGAN 
Over  ages  winging 
Again  the  angels  come. 
Holy  love  and  human 
In  her  worship  rise. 
0,  the  light  on  woman 
Shed  from  children's  eyes! 

To  the  factories  feeding 
Hands  and  soul  and  will; 
Herded,  and  unheeding 
She  is  woman  still. 
Trembling  home  in  gloom  light, 
Home  —  0  mock  of  breath! 
In  her  eyes  the  loom-blight, 
In  her  shadow,  death! 

Sons  must  pass  to  battle; 
Armour  them  with  prayers; 
Never  conflict's  rattle 
Reach  thy  straining  ears; 
[  46  ] 


DUO 

In  the  home  they've  made  thee, 
Mother,  sit  thee  down ; 
With  their  love  they'll  shade  thee, 
With  their  fortune  crown! 

Be  it  or  here  or  yonder, 
Where'er  thy  children  cry, 
Far  as  thy  fairest  wander, 
Far  as  thy  dearest  die, — 
Be  thine  the  heart  that  fareth 
Past  every  dim  frontier, 
Till  who  the  last  rood  dareth 
Shall  find  a  mother  there! 


[47] 


FATHERLAND 

OLIVE   TILFORD  DARGAN 

Come  fingered  as  a  friend,  0  Death! 
Unfrock  me,  flesh  and  bone; 
These  frills  of  smile  and  moan, 
These  laces,  traces,  all  unpin; 
These  veins  that  net  me  in, 
This  ever  lassoing  breath, 
Remove  from  me, 
If  here  is  aught  to  free ! 

To  know  these  hills  nor  wait  for  feet! 

0  Earth,  to  be  thy  child  at  last! 
Thy  roads  all  mine,  and  no  white  gate 

Inevitably  fast! 

To  enter  where  thy  banquets  are 
When  storms  are  called  to  feast; 

And  find  thy  hidden  pantry  stair 

When  Spring  with  thee  would  guest; 
[43  ] 


FATHERLAND 
Into  thine  attic  windows  step 

From  humbled  Himalays, 
And  round  thy  starry  cornice  creep 

Waylaying  deities; 

Though  for  my  hand 

Space  hold  out  spheres  like  roses,  and 

Like  country  lanes  her  orbits  blow  — 

My  Earth,  I  know, 

If  thou  be  green  and  blossom  still, 

That  I  must  downward  go; 

Leave  stars  to  keep 

House  as  they  will ; 

The  winds  to  walk  or  turn  and  sleep, 

Seas  to  spare  or  kill ; 

Behind  my  back  shall  sunsets  burn 

Bereft  of  my  concern; 

Each  wonder  passed 

Shall  feed  my  haste, 

[  49  ] 


OLIVE  TILFORD  DARGAN 
Till  I  have  paused,  as  now, 
Beneath  a  bending  orchard  bough, 
An  April  apple-bough, 
Where  southern  waters  creep. 


[  50] 


PRAYER  BEFORE  SUMMER 

ARTHUR  DAVISON   FICKE 

Once  more  across  the  frozen  hills 
Comes  the  premonitory  breath 
Of  violets  and  of  daffodils 
Returning  from  their  masque  of  death ; 

And  barren  branches  faintly  shake 
To  the  vibrations  of  the  sun; 
In  the  blue  sky  swift  wings  awake: 
The  dance  of  April  is  begun. 

Again  the  evening  woods  will  be 
Aisles  for  our  trysting  feet;  again 
The  summer  light  on  land  and  sea 
Will  make  the  paths  of  wonder  plain. 

Beloved  —  since  the  indifferent  Powers 
That  shaped  our  fibres  deign  to  will 
That  one  more  summer-flush  be  ours, 
Ours  the  bright  wave,  the  flowering  hill  — 
[  51  ] 


ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 
Cannot  some  wisdom  from  the  past 
Make  gay  and  gentle  in  its  mood 
This  April  passage,  through  the  vast 
Confusions,  toward  our  quietude?  — 

And  sense  of  briefness  come  to  lay 
Its  spell,  as  might  the  dreaming  moon, 
On  the  poor  actors  in  this  play 
That  ends  so  starkly  and  so  soon? 


[  52] 


NEAR  YARMOUTH 
(To  Edward  J.  O'Brien) 

JOHN   GOULD  FLETCHER 

The  river  holds  no  more  the  fishing  boats, 
For  long  ago  the  last  one  rotted  away: 
And  down  its  ever-meandering  curves  of  blue, 
No  masts  jut  out,  eager  to  fight  the  spray. 

But  on  dim  winter  nights, 

When  two  by  two  the  lights 

Burn  out  among  the  sleepy  villages 

Which  line  its  banks; 

The  clouds  roll  over,  heavy  ranks,  from  seaward, 

And  storm  the  steep  waves  of  the  sky. 

These  are  like  scudding  barks  with  hoisted  sail, 
These  are  blue  fishing  smacks,  setting  forth  for  the 

shoal  of  stars; 

Lot  Tubman  or  Amos  Barker  holds  the  wheel, 
While  through  the  sky  before  the  wind  they  reel. 
[  53  ] 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 
And  the  long  lines  of  rain 

Descend  upon  the  earth  like  ghostly  trawl -lines: 
But  ere  the  yawning  chimneys  blow  smoke  into  the 

morning, 
The  river  sleeps,  the  boats  are  gone  again. 


[54] 


ROOMS 

JOHN   GOULD   FLETCHER 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  more  lonely  than  a  room; 
Outdoors  are  stately  silent  places, 
Filled  with  unchanging  friendly  faces, 
Sharing  our  triumph  or  our  doom. 
But  here  where  four  flat  walls  share  everything 
With  the  sunlight  filtering  through  the  window-panes, 
Life  seems  a  row  of  black  and  polished  grains 
Listlessly  slipping  down  an  endless  string. 

Death  paces  up  and  down  in  each  room  we  have; 
Each  room  is  a  tabernacle  filled  with  little  deaths. 
Pale  drifting  moments!     Their  enfeebled  breaths 
Only  stirred  once,  then  settled  in  the  grave. 
And  over    them    all    there    broods    one    changeless 

thought, 

That  we  too  in  our  time  must  so  pass  out; 
As  passes  the  light  across  the  walls,  without 
Full  knowledge  of  the  goal  it  daily  sought. 
[  55  ] 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 
Impulse  within  a  room  swings  to-and-fro, 
Shaping  in  letters  hard  and  firm  and  clear, 
What  all  the  world  that  scorns  and  slips  us  here 
Will  never  stop  to  read  and  never  know :  — 
"  Seek  God  not  in  the  forest  but  the  cell;  " 
This  is  the  lesson  that  our  rooms  can  say. 
And  though  your  tomb  be  open  every  day, 
There  may  be  resurrection-dawns  to  tell. 

Who  learns  to  think  in  rooms  will  conquer  thought; 
Who  looks  at  walls  will  learn  of  patience'  self; 
Who  keeps  a  few  books,  oft-read,  on  a  shelf 
Will  enter  in  a  kingdom  safe,  unbought. 
Who  warms  his  hands  at  a  grate's  glowing  breath 
Will  find  the  warmth  that  runs  through  other  hands, 
Who  enters  in  a  room  and  understands 
And  knows  that  room  is    life,    will    pass    unmoved 
through  death. 

[  56  ] 


AFTERNOON 

FANNIE   STEARNS   GIFFORD 

Some  one  is  coming  to  call. 

Up  the  red  brick  path  between  daffodils  dancing 
I  see  white  ruffles  that  blow: 
A  parasol,  dipping  against  the  sun. 
It  is  some  one  stout,  and  warm  in  her  new  white 
gloves. 

My  old  green  apron   is  smudged  with   the  garden- 
mould. 

My  hands  are  the  hands  of  a  peasant-woman.     My  hair 
Comes  tumbling  down  into  my  eyes. 

I  wish  I  could  lie  down  flat  like  a  child 
And  hide  in  the  grass,  while  she  rings  and  rings, 
And  sticks  her  card  under  the  door  with  a  sigh, 
And  puffs  away  down  the  path. 
I  wish  —  but  the  parasol  bobs, 
[  57  ] 


FANNIE  STEARNS  GIFFORD 
And  she  bobs  like  a  mandarin's  lady, 
Smiling  and  bridling  and  beckoning. 

If  I  were  a  daffodil,  in  an  apron  of  green  and  gold  — 

But  there  she  stands  on  the  path, 

A-nd  her  gloves  are  so  new  they  squeak  with  newness 

and  stoutness, 
And  I  know  she  will  talk  of  the  weather  and  stay  an 

hour  — 

If  I  were  a  daffodil  — 

Or  a  little  cool  blinking  bug 

Down  in  the  daffodil  leaves  — 


OVERSEAS 

In  memory  of  Alan  Seeger, 

killed  in  battle,  Belloy-en-Santerre, 

July  4,  1916. 

ABBIE   CARTER  GOODLOE 

Across  the  vexed,  insuperable  sea, 
Afar,  we  call  to  him  —  alas,  in  vain ! 

No  voice  of  passionate  sweetness  answers  me, 
No  gallant  hand  waves  back  to  us  again. 

Across  relentless  barriers  of  foam 

With  useless  tears  our  longing  eyes  we  strain, 

And  useless  arms  stretch  forth  to  lure  him  home. 

He  will  not  come  to  us !     Afar,  heart  high, 
He  fared  to  find  fulfilment  of  his  dreams. 

Athirst  for  romance,  beaconing  destiny, 

He  sought  what  to  fair  youth  the  fairest  seems. 

Singing  he  went  —  song  ever  on  his  lips  — 
Bright  Phosphor  of  clear  poesy,  whose  beams 

Still  shine  on  us  even  in  his  star's  eclipse. 
[  59] 


ABBIE  CARTER  GOODLOE 

Across  the  blue,  the  unreturning  sea, 

Afar,  we  call  to  him  —  alas,  I  hear 
No  more  a  voice  that  chants  of  liberty, 

No  song  thrill  out  the  springtime  of  the  year! 
No  clarion  call  from  desolate  Champagne 

Where  roll  red,  ebbing  battle-tides,  or  where 
The  trampled  vineland  lapses  to  the  Aisne. 

Silent  the  Meuse  save  for  the  cannon's  roar, 

The  bugle's  note,  the  skyplanes'  winnowing  hum; 

Silent  the  reaches  of  the  scarred  north  shore; 
Silent  the  shell-swept  trenches  of  the  Somrne; 

Silent  for  evermore  the  lonely  air 

Of  all  that  lyric  sweetness,  hushed  and  dumb, 

Muted  upon  a  hillside  of  Santerre. 

Hostage  of  our  land's  honour,  by  red  ways, 

There  on  that  bloody  slope,  'neath  flame-lit  skies, 

With  the  brave  few  he  yielded  his  brief  days 
Battling  for  freedom's  menaced  liberties. 
[60  ] 


OVERSEAS 

Glimpsing,  no  more,  horizons  of  romance, 

Nor  love's  bright  paths,  he  turned  stern,  dying  eyes 
Towards  the   fire-rimmed,   "  the  brave    frontiers    of 
France." 

Oh,  not  for  him,  earth's  tranquil,  pleasant  way! 

That  fervent  pulse  which  beat  to  life's  desire, 
Leapt  to  the  call  of  arms  without  dismay. 

No  conscript  of  blind  fate!     Blithe  heart  afire 
With  passionate  zeal,  he  gave  his  latest  breath 

As  some  enraptured  martyr  mounts  the  pyre 
And  happily  goes  singing  to  his  death. 

Spirit  of  flame  and  tears  and  tenderness! 

Singer  and  soldier,  debonair  and  gay! 
Fond  worshipper  of  earth's  dear  loveliness 

From  Orizaba's  snows  to  far  Calais! 
Pilgrim  of  dreams!     Knight-errant  without  fears! 

Alas,  Death  vanquished,  should  have  turned  away 
And  spared  thee  to  Life's  utmost  days  and  years. 
[  61  ] 


ABBIE  CARTER  GOODLOE 
Useless,  this  vain  complaining  of  thy  will, 

0  Lord  of  Death!     Earth-born  we  bear  our  part  — 
All  thine  inexorable  laws  fulfil, 

By  thine  appointed  ways  from  earth  depart. 
What  boots  it  thee,  cold  Death,  that  mute,  alone, 

Those  ardent  lips,  that  once  intrepid  heart, 
Sleep  now  quite  passionless  and  overthrown? 

But  oh,  to  us  left  all  unsatisfied, 

What  solace  can  there  be  for  evermore? 

The  fair  fruition  of  his  hopes  denied, 

His  last  sigh  breathed  upon  a  distant  shore! 

How  comfort  us?  —  except,  despite  war's  toll, 

Song  has  saved  perfect  from  art's  ravished  store 

The  imperishable  essence  of  his  soul! 


ANIMALS 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

What  animal  you  are 
or  whether  you  are 
an  animal,  I 
am  too  dumb  to  tell. 
Some  moments, 

I  feel  you've  come  out  of  the  earth, 
out  of  some  cool  white  stone 
deep  down  in  the  earth. 
Or  there  brushes  past 
and  lurks  in  a  corner 
the  thought 

that  you  slipped  from  a  tree 
when  the  earth  stopped  spinning, 
that  a  blue  shell  brought  you 
when  the  sea  tired  waltzing. 
You  might  be  a  mouse, 
the  dryad  of  a  woodpecker, 
or  a  pure  tiny  fish  dream; 
[  63  ] 


ALFRED  KREYMBORG 
you  might  be  something  dropped  from  the  sky, 
not  a  god-child  — 
I  wouldn't  have  you  that  — 
nor  a  cloud  — 
though  I  love  clouds. 
You're  something  not  a  bird, 
I  can  tell. 

If  I  could  find  you  somewhere 
outside 

of  me,  I  might  tell  — 
but  inside? 


[  64] 


PRELUDES 

ALFRED   KREYMBORG 

If  you  stand  where  I  stand  — 

in  my  boudoir  — 

(don't  mind  my  shaving  — 

I  can't  afford  a  barber)  — 

you  can  see  into  her  boudoir  — 

you  can  see  milady  — 

her  back,  her  green  smock,  the  bench  she  loves  — 
her  hair  always  down  in  the  morning  — 

(the  sun  conspiring  with  the  curtains?)  — 
reddish  brown, 
with  ringlets  at  the  tips  — 
the  hairdresser  called  this  A.  M.  — 
him  I  have  to,  I  want  to  afford. 
Unhappily,  you  can't  see  her  face  — 
only  the  back  of  her  small  round  head  — 
and  a  glint  of  her  ears,  two  glints  — 
but  her  hands,  alas,  not  her  hands,  though 
happily,  you  can  hear  them. 
[  65  ] 


ALFRED  KREYMBORG 
It  isn't  a  clavichord  — 
only  a  satinwood  square  — 
bought  cheap  at  an  auction  — 
but  it  might  be,  you'd  think  it, 
a  clavichord,  bequeathed  by  the  past  — 
it  sounds  quite  like  feathers. 
Bach?     Yes,  who  else  could  that  be  — 
whom  else  would  you  have  in  the  morning  — 
with  the  sun  and  milady? 
Grave?     Yes,  but  so  is  the  sun  — 
not  always?     No,  but  please  don't  ponder  — 
listen,  hear  the  theme  — 
hear  it  dig  into  the  earth  of  harmonies. 
A  dissonance?     No,  'twas  only  a  stone  — 
which  powders  into  particles  with  the  rest. 
Now  follow  the  theme  — 
down,  down,  into  the  soil  — 
calling,  evoking  the  spirit  of  birth  — 
you  hear  those  new  tones  — 
[  66  ] 


PRELUDES 

that  sprinkle,  that  burst  — 
roulade  and  arpeggio? 
Gently  now,  firmly  — 
with  solemn  persuasion  — 
hiding  a  whimsic  raillery  — 
(does  a  dead  king  raise  his  forefinger?)  — 
though  they  would,  though  they  might  — 
no  phrase  can  escape  — 
the  theme,  the  theme  rules. 
Unhappy?     Nay,  nay  — 
they  ought  to  be  happy  — 
each  is  because  of,  in  spite  of,  the  other  — 
that  is  democracy. 
He  can't  spare  a  particle  — 
that  priest  of  the  morning  sun  — 
A  mistake?     Yes  indeed,  but  — 
all  the  more  human  — 

would  you  have  her  drum  like  a  schoolmaster  — 
abominable  right  note  at  the  right  time  — 
[  67  ] 


ALFRED  KREYMBORG 
in  the  morning,  so  early  — 
or  ever  at  all? 
She'll  play  it  again  — 
oh  don't,  please  don't  clap  — 
you'll  disturb  them! 
Here,  try  my  tobacco  — 
good,  a  deep  pipeful,  eh?  — 
an  aromatic  blend  — 
my  other  extravagance  — 
yes,  I'll  join  you,  but  wait  — 
I  must  first  dry  my  face! 


[  68] 


OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR 
CHILDREN 

VAC H EL   LINDSAY 

Where  a  river  roars  in  rapids 

And  doves  in  maples  fret, 
Where  peace  has  decked  the  pastures 

Our  guardian  angels  met. 

Long  they  had  sought  each  other 
In  God's  mysterious  name, 

Had  climbed  the  solemn  chaos  tides 
Alone,  with  hope  aflame: 

Amid  the  demon  deeps  had  wound 

By  many  a  fearful  way. 
As  they  beheld  each  other 

Their  shout  made  glad  the  day. 

No  need  of  purse  delayed  them, 
No  hand  of  friend  or  kin  — 
[  69] 


VACHEL  LINDSAY 

Nor  menace  of  the  bell  and  book, 
Nor  fear  of  mortal  sin. 

You  did  not  speak,  my  girl, 

At  this,  our  parting  hour. 
Long  we  held  each  other 

And  watched  their  deeds  of  power. 

They  made  a  curious  Eden. 
We  saw  that  it  was  good. 
We  thought  with  them  in  unison. 
We  proudly  understood 

Their  amaranth  eternal, 

Their  roses  strange  and  fair, 

The  asphodels  they  scattered 
Upon  the  living  air. 

They  built  a  house  of  clouds 
With  skilled,  immortal  hands. 

[  70  ] 


OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS 
They  entered  through  the  silver  doors. 
Their  wings  were  wedded  brands. 

I  laboured  up  the  valley 

To  granite  mountains  free. 
You  hurried  down  the  river 

To  Zidon  by  the  sea. 

But  at  their  place  of  meeting 
They  keep  a  home  and  shrine. 

Your  angel  twists  a  purple  flax, 
Then  weaves  a  mantle  fine. 

My  angel,  her  defender 

Upstanding,  spreads  the  light 

On  painted  clouds  of  fancy 
And  mists  that  wrap  the  height. 

Their  sturdy  babes  speak  kindly 
And  fly  and  run  with  joy, 
t  71  ] 


VACHEL  LINDSAY 
Shepherding  the  helpless  lambs  — 
A  Grecian  girl  and  boy. 

These  children  visit  Heaven 

Each  year  and  justify 
The  time  we  cried  and  parted, 

And  every  dream  and  sigh. 

From  books  our  God  has  written 
They  sing  of  high  desire. 

They  turn  the  leaves  in  gentleness. 
Their  wings  are  folded  fire. 


[72] 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE 
A  Ballad 

AMY  LOWELL 

"  Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  why  do  you  wake 

at  the  stroke  of  three?  " 
"  I  heard  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  forest,  and  the 

creak  of  the  wind  in  the  alder-tree." 

"  Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  why  do  you  stare 

so  into  the  dark?  " 
"I  saw  white  circles  twining,   floating,   and   in  the 

centre  a  molten  spark." 

"Why  are  you  restless,  Benjamin  Bailey?     Why  do 

you  fling  your  arms  so  wide?  " 
"  To  keep  the  bat's  wings  from  coming  closer  and 

push  the  grey  rat  from  my  side." 

"What  are  you  muttering,   Benjamin  Bailey?     The 
room  is  quiet,  the  moon  is  clear." 
[  73  ] 


AMY  LOWELL 

"  The  trees  of  the  forest  are  curling,  swaying,  writhing 
over  the  heart  of  my  Dear." 

"  Lie  down  and  cover  you,  Benjamin  Bailey,  you're 

raving,  for  never  a  wife  or  child 
Has  blessed  your  hearthstone;  it  is  the  fever,  which 
startles  your  brain  with  dreams  so  wild." 

"  No  wife  indeed,"  said  Benjamin  Bailey,  and  his  blue 

nails  picked  at  the  bedquilt's  edge. 
"  I  gathered  a  rose  in  another  man's  garden  and  hid  it 

from  sight  in  a  hawthorn  hedge. 

"  I  made  her  a  chamber  where  green  boughs  rustled, 

and  plaited  river-grass  for  the  floor, 
And  three  times  ten  moonlight  nights  I  loved  her, 
with  my  old  hound  stretching  before  the  door. 

"Then  out  of  the  North  a  knight  came  riding,  with 
crested  helm  and  pointed  sword. 
[  74] 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE 
4  Where  is  my  wife,'  said  the  knight  to  the  people. 
'  My  wife !     My  wife !  '  was  his  only  word. 

"He  tied  his  horse  to  the  alder  yonder,  and  stooped 

his  crest  to  enter  my  door. 
'My  wife,'  said  the  knight,  and  a  steel-grey  glitter 

flashed  from  his  armour  across  the  floor. 

"  Then  I  lied  to  that  white-faced  knight,  and  told  him 

the  lady  had  never  been  seen  hy  me; 
And  when  he  had  loosed  his  horse  from  the  alder,  I 
bore  him  a  mile  of  company. 

"  I  turned  him  over  the  bridge  to  the  valley,  and  waved 

him  Godspeed  in  the  twilight  grey. 
And  I  laughed  all  night  as  I  toyed  with  his  lady, 
clipping  and  kissing  the  hours  away. 

"  The  sun  was  kind  and  the  wind  was  gentle,  and  the 
green  boughs  over  our  chamber  sang, 
[  75  ] 


AMY  LOWELL 

But  on  the  Eastern  breeze  came  a  tinkle  whenever  the 
bells  in  the  Abbey  rang. 

"Dang!  went  the  bell  and  the  lady  hearkened,  once, 
twice,  thrice,  and  her  tears  sprang  forth. 

'  'Twas  three  of  the  clock  when  I  was  wedded,'  quoth 
she,  '  in  the  castle  to  the  North.' 

" '  They  praised  us  for  a  comely  couple,  in  truth  my 

Lord  was  a  sight  to  see, 

I  gave  him  my  troth  for  a  golden  dowry,  and  he  gave 
me  this  ring  on  the  stroke  of  three. 

" '  Three  years  I  lived  with  him  fair  and  stately,  and 

then  we  quarrelled,  as  lovers  will. 
He  swore  I  wed  for  his  golden  dowry,  and  I  that  he 
loved  another  still. 

"  *  I  knew  right  well  that  never  another  had  crossed  the 
heart  of  my  Dearest  Lord, 
[  76  ] 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE 

But  still  my  rage  waxed  hot  within  me  until,  one 
morning,  I  fled  abroad. 

"  '  All  down  the  flickering  isles  of  the  forest  I  rode  till 

at  twilight  I  sat  me  down, 

And  there  a-weeping  you  found  and  took  me,  as  one 
lifts  a  leaf  which  the  wind  has  blown. 

"  '  But  to-night  my  ring  burns  hot  on  my  finger,  and 
my  Lord's  face  shines  through  the  curtained  door. 
And  the  bells  beat  heavy  against  my  temples,  two 
long  strokes,  and  one  stroke  more. 

' '  Loose  me  now,  for  your  touch  is  terror,  my  heart  is 

a  hollow,  my  arms  are  wind; 

I  must  go  out  once  more  and  wander,  seeking  the 
forest  for  what  I  shall  find.' 

"  Then  I  fell  upon  her  and  stifled  her  speaking  till  the 
bells  died  away  in  the  rustling  breeze, 

[  77  ] 


AMY  LOWELL 

And  so  I  held  her  dumb  until  morning  with  smoth 
ered  lips,  but  I  knew  no  ease. 

"  And  every  night  that  the  bells  came  clearly,  striking 

three  strokes,  like  a  heavy  stone, 
I  would  seal  her  lips,  but  even  as  I  kissed  her,  be 
hind  her  clenched  teeth  I  could  hear  her  moan. 

"  The  nights  grew  longer,  I  had  the  lady,  her  pale  blue 

veins  and  her  skin  of  milk, 

But  I  might  have  been  clasping  a  white  wax  image 
straightly  stretched  on  a  quilt  of  silk. 

*'  Then  curdled  anger  foamed  within  me,  and  I  tore  at 

her  finger  to  take  the  ring, 

The  red  gold  ring  which  burned  her  spirit  like  some 
bewitched,  unhallowed  thing. 

"  High  in  the  boughs  of  our  leafy  chamber,  the  lady's 
sorrowing  died  away. 

[  78] 


THE  RING  AND  THE  CASTLE 
All  night  I  fought  for  the  red  gold  circle,  all  night, 
till  the  oak  trees  reddened  to  day. 

"  For  two  nights  more  I  strove  to  take  it,  the  red  gold 

circlet,  the  ring  of  fear, 

But  on  the  third  in  a  blood-red  vision  I  drew  my 
sword  and  cut  it  clear. 

"  Severed  the  ring  and  severed  the  finger,  and  slew  my 

Dear  on  the  stroke  of  three; 

Then  I  dug  a  grave  beneath  the  oak  trees,  and  buried 
her  there  where  none  could  see. 

"  I  took  the  ring,  and  the  bleeding  finger,  and  sent  a 

messenger  swiftly  forth, 

An  amazing  gift  to  my  Lord  I  sent  them,  in  his 
lonely  castle  to  the  North. 

"He  died,  they  say,  at  the  sight  of  my  present,  I 
laughed  when  I  heard  it  —  'Hee!  Hee!  Hee!  ' 
[  79  ] 


AMY  LOWELL 

But  every  night  my  veins  run  water  and  my  pores 
sweat  blood  at  the  stroke  of  three." 

"  Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  seek  repentance, 

your  time  is  past." 
"  My  Dearest  Dear  lies  under  the  oak-trees,  pity  indeed 

that  the  ring  held  fast." 

"Benjamin  Bailey,  Benjamin  Bailey,  sinners  repent 
when  they  come  to  die." 

"  Toll  the  bell  in  the  Abbey  tower,  and  under  the  oak- 
trees  let  me  lie." 


[80] 


SHORE  GRASS 

AMY  LOWELL 

The  moon  is  cold  over  the  sand-dunes, 

And  the  clumps  of  sea-grasses  flow  and  glitter; 

The  thin  chime  of  my  watch  tells  the  quarter  after 

midnight ; 

And  still  I  hear  nothing 
But  the  windy  beating  of  the  sea. 


[81  ] 


SMELLS 

CHRISTOPHER   MORLEY 

Why  is  it  that  the  poets  tell 
So  little  of  the  sense  of  smell? 
These  are  the  odours  I  love  well: 

The  smell  of  coffee  freshly  ground; 
Or  rich  plum  pudding,  holly  crowned; 
Or  onions  fried  and  deeply  browned. 

The  fragrance  of  a  fumy  pipe; 
The  smell  of  apples,  newly  ripe; 
And  printers'  ink  on  leaden  type. 

Woods  by  moonlight  in  September 
Breathe  most  sweet;  and  I  remember 
Many  a  smoky  camp-fire  ember. 

Camphor,  turpentine,  and  tea, 
The  balsam  of  a  Christmas  tree, 
These  are  whiffs  of  gramarye.  .  .  . 
A  ship  smells  best  of  all  to  me! 
[  82  ] 


AN  APRIL  SEQUENCE 

EDWARD  j.  O'BRIEN 

i 

Premonition 
Where  does  the  wind  from  the  wilding  blow 

Troubling  the  dream-caught  woods  of  dawn 
With  hushed  remembrance  of  woven  music 
Out  of  the  shadowy  gates  of  horn? 

Under  the  still-fringed  water-meadows 
Colour  is  veining  the  grassy  ways. 

Over  the  dove-clad  clouds  of  winter 

A  lark's  cry  falls  through  the  ringing  haze. 

Wind  and  water  and  star-paled  heaven 
Mingle  in  colour  and  whisper  of  wind. 

Earth  and  air  call  unto  the  Father. 
Can  April  wonder  be  far  behind? 


t  83  ] 


EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 

ii 

Tiding 
When  all  the  tides  of  April 

Are  rising  in  the  air, 
And  flowing  grass  and  cloud 

And  sea  are  fair, 

Light  circles  in  the  flower 

And  flesh  and  foam, 
And  body  unto  body 

Now  turns  home, 

While  He  whom,  clad  in  colour 
And  dream  and  prayer, 

Light  heralds,  rises  naked, 
And  white,  and  fair. 

Ill 

That  skylark  curving  toward  the  south 
And  circling  idly  up  the  wind, 
[  84] 


AN  APRIL  SEQUENCE 
Unmindful  of  the  winter's  way, 
Leaves  melody  behind. 

Proclaiming  through  his  arch  of  gold 
From  heaven  high  to  earth's  deep, 

The  wind  that  blows  the  stars  to  flame 
Cradles  flowers  in  their  sleep. 

IV 

April  Flame 
Wind  of  the  foaming  air, 

Ripple  over  my  heart, 
With  April  flame  bend  low, 

Of  mine  a  part. 

Flower  of  the  western  sky, 

Blow  in  my  flesh, 
With  April  laughter  mine, 

Caught  in  my  mesh. 
[  85  ] 


EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 
Stars  of  the  budding  night, 

Shine  on  my  brow: 
Make  of  these  smouldering  fires 

White  wisdom  now! 

V 

Why  grieve  to  see  the  light  in  air, 

Or  sigh,  of  April  fain? 
White  orchards  all  afoam  with  stars 

Shall  flower  the  dreaming  plain. 

For  spring  comes  white  with  morning, 
And  laughs  the  clouds  away. 

Why  grieve  that  April  flame  is  fled? 
Arise,  and  shout  with  May! 


[86] 


IN  LATE  SPRING 

CHARLES   L.   o'DONNELL 

I  mark  me  how  to-day  the  maples  wear 
A  look  of  inward  burgeoning  and  I  feel 

Colours  I  see  not  in  the  naked  air, 
Lance-keen,  and  with  the  little  blue  of  steel. 

No  bud  is  forth  nor  green  abroad  and  yet 

Air  seems  to   wait   with    raiment   for   earth's 
flowers ; 

Come,  then,  ungarmented,  thou  violet, 
And  take  thy  purple  of  the  tiring  hours. 


[87] 


EXILES 

VINCENT   O'SULLIVAN 

The  sick  crusader  watches 

Through  the  window  the  fall  of  snow; 
She  stands  under  the  palm-trees  watching 

The  slow  black  caravans  go. 

She  sees  him  by  the  window  watching 

The  vacant  snow-flakes  fall ; 
He  sees  her  in  the  hot  sun  standing 

Sorrowful,  white,  and  tall. 

She  hears  him  through  the  snow  telling  her 

All  in  his  heart  to  tell  — 
Beneath  the  moveless  palm-trees 

In  the  dead  glare  at  the  well. 


FAR  UP  IN  THE  MYSTERY  HILLS 

VINCENT    O'SULLIVAN 

Far  up  in  the  Mystery  Hills 

Lies  hid  the  little  stone, 
And  I  must  climb  the  Mystery  Hills 

On  the  grey  day,  alone. 

Under  the  aching  sky  at  noon 
Blows  a  vast  wind  and  cries 

Dead  hours  and  their  solemnities: 
Ah,  they  were  still  and  wise. 

And  is  it  this,  the  little  stone? 

Oh,  my  poor  brother,  see 
The  broken  things,  the  broken  things, 

That  will  not  let  me  be. 


[89  ] 


HE  SINGS  BECAUSE  HIS  WIFE  HAS  GONE 
OUT  OF  THE  HOUSE 

VINCENT  O'SULLIVAN 

He  sings  because  his  wife  has  gone  out  of  the  house: 
Bending  over  the  table  in  the  twilight  of  the  room 
He  sings  soft  old  things  he  sang  when  he  was  a  boy, 
And  near  his  chair  stays  listening  a  grey  mouse. 

He  sings  because  the  gay  loud  woman  is  out  in  the 

town, 
And  in  his  heart  there  is  a  quiet,  and  the  room  is  so 

still 
That  the  grey  mouse  preens  its  whiskers  far  away  from 

the  wall, 
For  the  man's  voice  is  dreamy  and  kind  like  those  who 

are  very  ill. 

And  he  wonders  if  some  day  his  wife  will  go  out  of  the 

house 
And  leave  him  alone  with  the  mouse,  too  still  to  feel 

more 

[90  ] 


HE  SINGS 

Than  the  waves  and  the  waves  of  quiet  in  the  dark 
ened  room, 

As  he  lies  with  the  sun  on  his  face  through  a  chink  of 
the  door. 


RAINY  DAY 

VINCENT    O'SULLIVAN 

The  patient  rain  falls  in  a  hush 

On  the  poor  little  town; 
All  night  long  it  fell  on  the  street 

Where  the  leaves  lie  dead  and  brown. 

The  drug-store  shines  with  wet, 

And  behind  the  glass  panes  stare 

The  pale  eyes  of  the  palsied  woman 
Who  lives  by  her  kind  son's  care. 

Nobody  goes  out  at  all; 

But  the  little  ships  at  sea 
Sail  wisely  through  the  mist  of  rain 

And  this  night  they  will  be 

Rocking  at  the  wharves 

Of  the  poor  little  town, 
And  the  strong  captains  shouting  Ho!  Ho! 

After  the  sails  come  down. 
[92  ] 


DEFEAT 

WILLIAM   ALEXANDER    PERCY 

Though  you  have  struck  me  to  the  bloody  core, 
It  is  indeed  only  one  scar  the  more! 
And  I'll  not  turn  from  you  as  at  the  other  strokes, 
Nor  say  "  Good-bye!  "  as  other  times  I  said. 

The  agony  still  chokes, 
And  still  it  seems  most  restful  to  be  dead. 
But  I'll  not  say  "  Good-bye  "  nor  turn  away 

Nor  parting  lover  play.  .  .  . 

Leave  you?     Take  everything  save  all  —  my  heart? 
I  know  the  scene  too  well,  too  well  my  part! 
Hot  tears  and  bitterness;  and  I  would  go, 
Go  for  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week  — 
Is  bitterness  so  short  called  pique? 
And  in  the  old,  old  way  without  regret 

I  would  return  to  you; 
And  in  the  old,  old  way  you  would  forget 

That  ever  I  had  gone,  and  let 
Some  casual  tenderness 
[93  ] 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 

Be  my  return's  caress; 
Or,  in  some  vague,  absorbed  distress, 
Lift  up  your  shadow  eyes  to  mine,  still  wet. 


[94] 


TO  BUTTERFLY 

WILLIAM    ALEXANDER    PERCY 

Do  you  remember  how  the  twilight  stood 
And  leaned  above  the  river  just  to  see 
If  still  the  crocus  buds  were  in  her  hood, 
And  if  her  robes  were  gold  or  shadowy? 
Do  you  remember  how  the  twilight  stood 
When  we  were  lovers  and  the  world  our  wood? 
And  then,  one  night,  when  we  could  find  no  word, 
But  silence  trembled  like  a  heart  —  like  mine!  — 
And  suddenly  that  moon-enraptured  bird 
Awoke  and  all  the  darkness  turned  to  wine? 
How  long  ago  that  was !     And  how  absurd 
For  us  to  own  a  wood  that  owned  a  bird ! 
They  tell  me  there  are  magic  gardens  still, 
And  birds  that  sleep  to  wake  and  dream  to  sing, 
And  streams  that  pause  for  crocus  skies  to  fill ; 
But  they  that  told  were  lovers  and  'twas  spring. 
Yet  why  the  moon  to-night's  a  daffodil 

When  it  is  March — Do  you  remember,  still? 
[  95  ] 


CHLOE  TO  AMARYLLIS 

LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE 

That  you  are  poor,  that  I  grow  old, 
It  matters  not.     Our  battles  hold. 
The  lovely,  undisturbed  things 
Are  left  for  our  rememberings. 

Kings'  houses;  graves  out  on  the  downs; 
Shop  windows  in  great  ancient  towns; 
The  rooks  tossed  up  the  rosy  sky 
Out  of  the  vicarage  garden  high; 
The  minster  tower  poignant  with  years 
That  shook  the  dusk  as  though  with  tears. 

Scraps  of  old  music  dewy-clear 
Haunt  us  each  turning  of  the  year; 
When  fields  are  coloured  like  a  stone, 
A  thought  of  April  can  atone; 
Of  cowslip  flowers  golden  small 
Under  a  windy  village  wall. 
[  96  ] 


CHLOE  TO  AMARYLLIS 
That  you  are  poor,  and  I  grow  old ! 
But  memories  keep;  but  battles  hold:  — 
The  footspace  snatched  from  quaking  mire; 
From  dying  dreams  the  undying  fire; 
And  when  we  trod  the  perilous  land, 
The  god  all  ready  to  our  hand. 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

GENEVIEVE 

Don't  look  at  me  so  much  as  if  to-day 
Were  the  last  day  on  earth  for  both  of  us ! 

ALEXANDRA 

Now  for  the  love  of  heaven,  dear  Genevieve, 
And  for  your  love  of  me,  and  I'm  your  sister, 
Say  why  it  is  that  since  I  found  this  house 
That  all-mysterious  little  tongue  of  yours, 
Which  God  gave  you  to  talk  with  and  so  tell 
Bewildered  sisters  and  impatient  friends 
Whatever  'tis  that  ails  you,  tells  me  nothing. 
You  sent  for  me  as  if  the  world  were  dying 
All  round  you,  quite  as  mice  do  that  are  poisoned, 
And  here  I  am;  and  I'll  be  dying  soon, 
Of  common  ordinary  desperation, 
Unless  you  tell  me  more  now  in  an  hour 
Than  you  have  had  me  guessing  in  a  fortnight. 
[98  ] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

GENEVIEVE 
Dear  child,  have  you  no  eyes? 

ALEXANDRA 

Two,  Genevieve; 

But  they  were  never  sharp  enough  to  find 
A  way  to  make  the  man  who  married  you 
See  more  in  me  than  in  six  hundred  others. 
I  would  have  given  half  my  fingers  then 
To  make  him  look  at  me  as  if  he  saw  me; 
But  it  was  you  he  saw,  and  you  seemed  frightened. 
I  wish  the  creature  might  have  cared  enough 
To  frighten  me!     But  I  was  just  a  thing 
With  skirts  and  arms  and  legs  and  ears  and  hair, 
Like  all  of  us  he  saw  —  till  he  saw  you. 
You  know  it,  and  I  say  it.     That's  all  over. 

GENEVIEVE 

My  God,  there's  no  beginning  to  some  things, 
Or  I  could  speak.     For  two  weeks  I  have  waited 
t  99  ] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 
For  you  to  make  it  easy  to  be  hard; 
And  yet  you  tell  me  now  that  you  have  eyes! 
Did  you  have  eyes  last  night? 

ALEXANDRA 

I  thought  so. 

GENEVIEVE 

Yes? 

ALEXANDRA 

You  are  coming  then  to  something  after  all; 
And  that's  a  boon.     But  all  you  say,  my  dear, 
Is  not  quite  all  you  mean.     You  don't  mean  Her? 

GENEVIEVE 

I  counted  on  you  to  find  words  where  I 
Find  silence.     Was  that  too  ridiculous? 

ALEXANDRA 

You  counted  on  my  old  unpleasant  way 
Of  saying  out  what  you  find  odious? 
I  understand,  and  I'll  be  generous. 
[  100  ] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 
I'm  old  enough,  the  good  Lord  knows,  who  gave  me 
A  feature  less  than  what  I  might  have  used 
Of  beauty,  and  you  more  than  you  can  use; 
Or  so  it  seems.     The  good  Lord's  ways  are  past 
Our  delving,  and  we've  each  a  book  to  read  — 
A  book  that  has  a  leaf  we'll  not  lay  open 
Till  Time's  old  skinny  finger  does  it  for  us. 
It's  all  a  game,  and  one  Time  plays  with  women 
Who  cannot  meet  the  Lord  half  way.     That's  you, 
My  angel.     There'll  be  something  done  about  it; 
Or  there'll  be  waiting  till  Time  wins  again, 
And  then  'twill  all  be  groaning,  and  too  late. 
For  Time  has  had  an  eye  on  even  you, 
These  years  together.     Don't  forget  old  sayings, 
For  they  are  true  and  they  have  not  much  mercy. 

GENEVIEVE 

And  what's  this  you  are  saying  of  old  sayings? 
It's  not  the  old  that  I  want  now,  but  the  new. 

t  101  ] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 
I've  had  enough  that's  old.     I've  had  enough  — 
Day  after  day  of  it.     Do  I  look  old? 

ALEXANDRA 

Not  yet;  you  needn't  fret.     But  even  at  that 
There's  time  enough  to  tear  the  calendar 
When  days  are  dead. 

GENEVIEVE 

She's  older  than  I  am. 

ALEXANDRA 
She  knows,  my  dear. 

GENEVIEVE 

She  knows  it,  and  he  knows  it! 

ALEXANDRA 
But  that's  not  all  she  knows,  nor  all  he  knows. 

GENEVIEVE 

What  are  you  saying  now?     What  do  you  mean? 
[  102  ] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 
ALEXANDRA 

I'm  saying  something  new.     Lord  save  us  all; 

I'm  saying  something  new.     You  cried  aloud 

For  me  to  do  it,  and  you  only  ask, 

"What  are  you  saying  now!  "     I'm  saying  this: 

I'm  saying  there  are  men  to  take  your  gift 

Of  pride  and  ice  and  fear  of  being  human, 

And,  having  it,  be  happy  all  their  days; 

I'm  saying  also  that  the  man  you  married 

Is  not  a  cave-man,  or  a  cannibal 

Who  means  to  eat  you  pretty  soon, —  although 

An  alabaster  shrine  with  now  and  then 

A  taper  burning  low,  or  going  out, 

Is  not  what  he  calls  home  or  good  religion. 

He  calls  it  something  else,  and  something  worse. 

I'm  sorry,  but  he  does. 

GENEVIEVE 

And  you  defend  him. 

[  103  ] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

ALEXANDRA 

Defence  and  understanding,  as  I  know  them, 
Are  not  of  a  necessity  the  same. 

GENEVIEVE 
How  do  you  know  so  much? 

ALEXANDRA 

I  don't  know  much; 
I  know  a  little.     I  wish  you  knew  a  little. 

GENEVIEVE 
I  wish  you  knew  a  little  more. 

ALEXANDRA 

You're  crying! 

GENEVIEVE 

Well,  if  I  am,  what  of  it?     I  am  not 
The  only  woman  who  has  ever  cried. 
I'm  not  the  only  woman,  I  dare  say, 
[  104] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

Who's  in  a  cage,  beating  on  iron  bars 
That  even  other  women  cannot  see. 

ALEXANDRA 
Surely  I  see  them  —  with  a  difference. 

GENEVIEVE 
How  good  of  you  to  see  them! 

ALEXANDRA 

Say  no  more, 

My  dear,  until  you  are  yourself  again. 
You  tell  of  cages  and  of  iron  bars, 
And  there  are  bars,  I  grant  you:  bars  enough, 
But  they  are  not  of  iron.     Do  you  think 
Because  a  man  —  a  rather  furry  man 
Who  likes  a  woman  with  a  dash  of  Eve 
To  liven  her  insensible  perfection  — 
Looks  now  and  then  the  other  way,  that  you 
Are  cribbed  in  iron  for  the  blessed  length 
Of  all  your  silly  days?     Why  don't  you  like 
[  105  ] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 
To  see,  with  your  magnificent  sad  eyes, 
How  much,  and  yet  how  little,  you  may  do 
To  send  that  other  one  to  Jericho, 
Or  some  place  else?     I  wish  I  had  your  face! 
If  so,  you  might  be  free  now,  as  I  am; 
Free  as  a  bird,  and  one  without  a  cage. 
0  Lord,  so  free,  so  free!     Some  day  or  other, 
When  I'm  at  home,  I'm  going  to  throw  a  brick 
At  that  superb  tall  monstrous  Ching-Chang  vase 
In  the  front  room  which  every  one  admires. 
There'll  be  a  noise,  and  that  will  make  a  change, 
If  nothing  else.     You  made  a  change;  and  all 
You  get  of  it's  a  reason  to  be  jealous. 
Lord  love  us,  you'll  be  jealous  next  of  me, 
Because  your  condescending  spouse  made  out 
Somehow  to  scratch  my  cheek  with  his  hard  whiskers, 
To  honour  my  arrival.     He  might  as  well 
Have  done  it  with  a  broom,  and  I've  a  guess 
Would   rather. 

[  106] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 
GENEVIEVE 

I  can  only  say  again, 
I  wish  you  knew  a  little  more. 

ALEXANDRA 

I  wish 
You  fancied  not  so  much. 

GENEVIEVE 

Oh,  is  it  fancy? 

ALEXANDRA 

Whatever  it  is,  you've  made  it  what  it  is. 
I  know  the  man;  he  wants  his  house  to  live  in. 
He's  not  the  kind  who  makes  another  man's 
Romance  a  nightmare  for  the  humour  of  it; 
He's  not  one  to  go  leering  everywhere 
As  if  he  were  a  spider  with  an  income; 
He's  what  he  is;  and  you  that  have  him  so, 
I  see,  are  in  the  best  of  ways  to  lose  him. 
[  107] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 
But  who  am  I,  to  talk  of  him?     You  made  me, 
And  you'll  remember  that.     Now  that's  all  over. 

GENEVIEVE 
You  pat  me  as  you  would  a  little  dog. 

ALEXANDRA 
Bow-wow ! 

GENEVIEVE 
I  wish  you  knew  a  little  more. 

ALEXANDRA 

My  darling,  you  have  honoured  me  three  times 
By  wishing  that  identical  sweet  wish; 
And  if  in  all  agreement  with  your  text 
I  say  as  much  myself  and  say  it  louder, 
You'll  treasure  to  my  credit,  when  I'm  dead, 
One  faint  remembrance  of  humility. 
Although  I  don't  think  you  are  listening, 
I'm  saying  I'm  an  insect.     Do  you  hear  me? 
Lord,  what  a  sigh! 

[  108] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 
GENEVIEVE 

I  hear  you.     Yes,  I  hear  you, 
And  what  you  seem  to  say  so  easily 
May  be  the  end  of  wisdom,  possibly. 
And  I  may  change.     I  don't  believe  it  much, 
But  I  may  change  a  little.     I  don't  know. 
It  may  be  now  that  I  don't  care  enough 
To  change.     It  may  be  that  the  few  lights  left 
Around  the  shrine,  as  you  say,  may  go  out 
Without  my  tending  them  or  seeing  them. 
It  seems  a  jealous  love  is  not  enough 
To  bring  at  once  to  light,  as  I  have  seen  it, 
The  farthest  hidden  of  all  mockeries 
That  home  can  hold  and  hide  —  until  it  comes. 
Well,  it  has  come.     Oh,  never  mind  me  now! 
Our  tears  are  cheap,  and  men  see  few  of  them. 
He  doesn't  know  that   I  know. 

ALEXANDRA 

Genevieve ! 
[  109  ] 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 
Say  something,  if  you  only  say  you  hate  me. 
What  have  I  done?     Have  I  done  anything? 
It  isn't  what  I  said?     I  knew  it  wasn't. 
Poor  child,  I  cannot  ask  if  you  are  right, 
Or  say  that  you  are  wrong,  until  I  know 
The  growing  of  all  this.     Whatever  word 
You  tell  me  now,  although  you  find  it  hard  — 
And  life  has  nothing  harder  than  small  words 
That  may  not  say  themselves  and  be  forgotten  — 
May  prove  at  last,  or  soon,  or  even  to-day, 
The  one  beginning  of  deliverance. 
No  more  then.     I'll  not  sting  you  for  an  answer. 
Indeed,  I  may  be  wrong;  and  it  may  be 
That  you  are  not  my  sister  any  more. 

GENEVIEVE 

The  farthest  hidden  things  are  still,  my  dear. 
They  make  no  noise ;  and  we,  in  our  poor  turn, 
Say  less  of  them  than  of  the  common  spite 
We  nourish  for  the  friend  who  loves  too  much. 

[  no  ] 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

They  come  from  where  they  live,  like  slender  snakes, 

And  strike  us  in  the  dark;  and  then  we  suffer. 

And  you,  my  sister,  of  all  women  living, 

Have  made  me  know  the  truth  of  what  I'm  saying; 

And  you,  as  I'm  a  fool,  know  nothing  more 

Than  what  I've  hardly  said.     Thank  God  for  that. 

ALEXANDRA 

Why  mock  yourself  with  more  unhappy  names 
Than  sorrow  shares  with  reason?     Why  defeat 
The  one  safe  impulse  and  the  one  sure  need 
That  now  are  on  their  way  to  lay  for  ever 
The  last  of  all  the  bogeys  you  have  seen 
Somewhere  in  awful  corners  that  are  dark 
Because  you  make  them  so  and  keep  them  so? 
You  like  the  dark,  maybe.     I  don't.     I  hate  it. 
Now  tell  me  what  it  is  you've  hardly  said; 
For  I  assure  you  that  you've  hardly  said  it. 


in 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

GENEVIEVE 

You  make  a  jest  of  love  and  all  it  means. 
I  can  bear  that.     The  world  has  always  done  it, 
The  world  has  always  borne  it.     Many  men 
And  women  have  made  laughter  out  of  those 
Who  might  as  well  have  been  in  hell  as  here, 
Alive  and  listening.     When  love  can  hold 
Its  own  with  change,  no  more,  'twere  better  then 
For  love  to  die.     Indeed,  there  might  be  then, 
If  that  were  all,  an  easy  death  for  love; 
If  not,  then  for  the  woman. 

ALEXANDRA 

If  that  were  all? 
You  speak  now  as  if  that  were  not  enough. 

GENEVIEVE 

It  seems  it  isn't.     There's  another  corner; 
And  in  that  corner  there's  another  ghost. 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

ALEXANDRA 
What  have  I  done?     Have  I  done  anything? 

GENEVIEVE 

Yes,  you  have  made  me  see  how  poor  I  am; 
How  futile,  and  how  far  away  I  am 
From  what  his  hungry  love  and  hungry  mind 
Thought  I  was  giving  when  I  gave  myself. 

ALEXANDRA 

But  when  his  eyes  are  on  you,  I  can  swear 
That  I  see  only  kindness  in  his  face. 

GENEVIEVE 
I'll  send  you  home  if  you  say  that  again. 

ALEXANDRA 

Be  tranquil;  I  shall  not  say  that  again. 
But  tell  me  more  about  his  hungry  mind  — 
I  understand  the  rest  of  it.     Good  Lord! 
I  never  knew  he  had  a  hungry  mind. 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

GENEVIEVE 
He  hasn't  one  when  you  are  with  him. 


ALEXANDRA 

What! 


GENEVIEVE 

I  say  he  hasn't  one  when  you  are  with  him. 
You  feed  him.     You  can  talk  of  what  he  knows 
And  cares  about.     Six  months  have  been  enough 
To  make  what  little  mind  I  ever  had 
A  weariness  too  blank  for  his  endurance. 
He  knows  how  little  I  shall  ever  know, — 
He  knows  that  in  his  measure  I'm  a  fool ; 
And  there  is  only  —  kindness  in  his  face, 
You  tell  me  now.     I'd  rather  be  his  dog. 

ALEXANDRA 

What  in  the  name  of  ruin,  dear  Genevieve, 
Do  you  think  you  are  doing  now  with  words? 


GENEVIEVE  AND  ALEXANDRA 

GENEVIEVE 

I'd  rather  be  a  byword  in  the  city, 
And  let  him  have  his  harem  and  be  happy; 
I'd  rather  live  in  hovels  and  eat  scraps, 
And  feed  the  pigs  and  all  the  wretched  babies; 
I'd  rather  steal  my  food  or  starve  to  death; 
I'd  rather  cut  my  feet  off  and  take  poison; 
I'd  rather  sit  and  skin  myself  alive 
Than  be  a  fool!     I'd  rather  be  a  toad 
Than  live  to  see  that  —  kindness  in  his  face! 

ALEXANDRA 

Poor  Genevieve,  that  wasn't  you!     Your  nerves 
Are  talking,  and  they  don't  know  what  they're  saying. 
Don't  think  that  you  alone  of  womankind 
Have  had  these  little  fancies. 

GENEVIEVE 

Oh,  stop  that! 


DRUMNOTES 

CARL  SANDBURG 

Days  of  the  dead  men,  Danny. 
Drum  for  the  dead,  drum  on  your 
remembering  heart. 

Jaures,  a  great  love-heart  of  France, 
a  slug  of  lead  in  the  red  valves. 

Kitchener  of  Khartoum,  tall,  cold,  proud, 
a  shark's  mouthful. 

Franz  Josef,  the  old  man  of  forty  haunted 
kingdoms,  in  a  tomb  with  the  Hapsburg 
fathers,  moths  eating  a  green  uniform 
to  tatters,  worms  taking  all  and  leaving 
only  bones  and  gold  buttons,  bones  and 
iron  crosses. 

Jack  London,  Jim  Riley,  Verhaeren,  riders  to 
the  republic  of  dreams. 

Days  of  the  dead,  Danny. 

Drum  on  your  remembering  heart. 


AN  OLD  INN  BY  THE  SEA1 

ODELL  SHEPARD 

All  night  long  we  had  heard  the  voice  of  the  Sea 

Roaming  the  corridors. 

Across  the  worn  and  hollow  floors 

There  went  a  ghostly  tread  incessantly. 

The  walls  of  our  old  inn, 

By  windy  winters  eaten  grey  and  thin, 

Trembled  and  shook,  the  wild  night  long, 

With  resonant,  vague,  hoarse-throated  song 

Like  a  storm-strung  violin. 

All  night  we  heard  vast  forces  throng 

To  onset  in  the  dark,  indomitably  strong, 

An  army  under  sable  banners  flying. 

And  then,  above  the  din 

Of  far  wild  voices  crying 

And  farther,  wilder  voices  dreadfully  replying, 

Slowly,  far  down  the  unseen  mysterious  shore, 

1  Written  shortly  after  America's  declaration  of  war. 


ODELL  SHEPARD 

With  fearful  sibilance  and  long  unintermittent  roar, 
We  heard  another,  mightier  tide  begin ! 

Then  our  hearts  shook,  there  on  the  world's  wild  rim 

Fronting  eternity  and  neighbouring  the  Abyss. 

Had  we  not  cowered  all  night  from  the  face  of  Him, 

The  King  of  Terrors,  from  the  coil  and  hiss 

Of  the  pale  snakes  of  death 

Writhing  about  our  very  door? 

Had  we  not  borne  his  clammy  breath 

Upon  our  hair 

Nightlong,  and  his  stealthy  footstep  on  the  stair, 

His  vast  voice  everywhere?. 

Had  not  each  echoing  wall  and  hollow  floor, 

Worn  by  his  winds  so  grey  and  spectre-thin, 

Resounded  like  the  shell  of  a  fragile  violin 

That  screams  once  at  its  death  and  never  more? 

Had  He  not  homage  of  our  fear  enough  before 

He  sent  this  last  dark  cohort  crashing  in? 


THE  FLOCK  AT  EVENING 

ODELL  SHEPARD 

Down  from  the  rocky  western  steep 

Where  now  the  sunset  crumbles  low 
The  shepherd  draws  his  sun-drowsed  sheep 

Ringed  in  a  rosy  glow; 
Along  the  dusty  leaf-hung  lane, 
Now  blurred  in  shade,  now  bright  again, 
They  trail  in  splendour,  aureoled 
And  mystical  in  clouded  gold. 

As  insubstantial  as  a  dream 

They  huddled  homeward  by  my  door,  — 
From  what  Theocritean  stream 

Or  what  Thessalian  shore? 
What  ancient  air  surrounds  them  still, 
As  though  from  some  Arcadian  hill 
They  shuffled  through  the  afterglow 
Across  the  fields  of  long  ago? 


[ 


ODELL  SHEPARD 
Is  this  the  flock  that  Bion  kept 

From  straying  by  his  reed-soft  tunes 
While  the  long  ilex  shadow  crept 

Through  ancient  afternoons? 
In  some  still  Arethusan  wood, 
Ages  agone,  have  they  not  stood 
Wondering,  circle-wise  and  mute, 
Round  some  remote  Sicilian  flute? 

I  think  that  they  have  gazed  across 

The  dazzle  of  Ionian  seas 
From  the  green  capes  of  Tenedos 

Or  sea-washed  Cyclades, 
And  loitered  through  the  twilight  down 
The  hills  that  gird  some  Attic  town 
Still  shining  in  the  early  gloam 
Beside  the  murmur  of  the  foam. 

What  dream  is  this?     I  know  the  croft, 
Deep  in  this  dale,  where  they  were  born; 
[  120] 


A  FLOCK  AT  EVENING 
I  know  their  wind-swept  hills  aloft 

Among  the  rustling  corn; 
Yet,  while  they  glimmer  slowly  by, 
A  younger  earth,  a  fairer  sky 
Seem  round  them,  and  they  move  sublime 
Among  the  morning  dews  of  time. 


[121] 


THE  FIRST  FOOD 

GEORGE   STERLING 

Mother,  in  some  sad  evening  long  ago, 

From  thy  young  breast  my  groping  lips  were  taken, 
Their  hunger  stilled,  so  soon  again  to  waken, 

But  nevermore  that  holy  food  to  know. 

Ah!  nevermore!  for  all  the  child  might  crave! 

Ah!  nevermore!  through  years  unkind  and  dreary! 

Often  of  other  fare  my  lips  are  weary, 
Unwearied  once  of  what  thy  bosom  gave. 

(Poor  wordless  mouth  that  could  not  speak  thy  name! 
At  what  unhappy  revels  has  it  eaten 
The  viands  that  no  memory  can  sweeten, — 

The  banquet  found  eternally  the  same!) 

Then  fell  a  shadow  first  on  thee  and  me, 

And  tendrils  broke  that  held  us  two  how  dearly! 
Once  infinitely  thine,  then  hourly,  yearly, 

Less  thine,  as  less  the  worthy  thine  to  be! 
[  122  ] 


THE  FIRST  FOOD 
(0  mouth  that  yet  should  kiss  the  mouth  of  Sin! 

Were  lies  so  sweet,  now  bitter  to  remember? 

Slow  sinks  the  flame  unfaithful  to  an  ember ; 
New  beauty  fades  and  passion's  wine  is  thin.) 

How  poor  an  end  of  that  solicitude 

And  all  the  love  I  had  not  from  another! 
Peace  to  thine  unforgetting  heart,  0  Mother, 

Who  gav'st  the  dear  and  unremembered  food! 


[  123] 


LLEWELLYN,  PRINCE  OF  CAMBRIA 
A  WELSH  BALLAD 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 

Llewellyn  stood  at  his  palace  door, 

And  a  frown  was  on  his  face. 
"  Farewell,"  he  cried  to  his  new-wed  bride, 

"Farewell  for  a  little  space! 

"  Sith  you  deny  me  a  dole  of  love 
For  the  gift  of  my  princely  name, 

I'm  forth  to  seek  me  a  love  that  will, 
Though  it  be  a  love  of  shame." 

Llewellyn  he  turned  from  his  palace  gate, 

Went  over  the  hills  away; 
He  ate  of  the  deer,  he  drank  of  the  stream 

For  many  a  livelong  day. 

Llewellyn  rose  from  his  bed  of  leaves 
One  morn  when  the  mists  were  red, 
t  124  ] 


LLEWELLYN,  PRINCE  OF  CAMBRIA 

And  he  was  aware  of  a  woman's  form 
Stood  high  on  a  cliff  o'erhead. 

This  woman  was  clad  in  the  dun  deer-skin, 

But  one  white  breast  was  bare, 
And  kilted  was  she  above  the  knee, 

And  loose  was  her  red-gold  hair. 

The  sun  rose  behind  her  out  of  the  east, 

And  she  glowed  like  a  flame  of  fire, 
And  she  stretched  her  arms  toward  Llewellyn  there 

Till  he  trembled  with  sweet  desire. 

Then  up  leapt  he  right  wantonly 

And  ran  to  where  she  stood, 
But  she  waved  her  hand,  and  turned  and  fled 

Through  the  dark  of  the  tangled  wood. 

The  woman  ran  and  Llewellyn  ran 

Through  bush  and  meadow  and  brake, 
[  125  ] 


CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 
O'er  many  a  craggy  mountain-ridge, 
Round  many  a  quiet  lake. 

And  twice  when  Llewellyn  stopped  to  breathe 
In  the  heat  of  the  breathless  noon 

The  woman  turned  and  looked  at  him 
Till  his  strong  heart  reeled  in  a  swoon. 

They  ran  all  day  and  they  ran  at  eve 
By  the  light  of  the  first  wan  star, 

For  Llewellyn  followed  her  red-gold  hair 
That  gleamed  in  the  dusk  afar. 

They  came  at  length  to  a  narrow  glen 
Where  the  cliff  rose  sheer  o'erhead. 

The  woman  she  sank  in  a  huddled  heap 
And  hid  her  face  as  in  dread. 

Llewellyn  came  up  and  looked  at  her 
While  her  panting  shoulders  heaved, 
[  126  ] 


LLEWELLYN,  PRINCE  OF  CAMBRIA 
He  heard  the  sob  of  her  deep-drawn  breath, 
And  his  heart  was  well-nigh  grieved. 

"  0  prize  that  the  speed  of  my  feet  hath  won, 
Come  yield  with  a  right  good  grace! 

You  wakened  my  love,  you  may  still  my  love.- 
Turn  round  and  show  your  face!  " 

She  answered  him,  and  her  voice  was  low, 

But  welcome  unto  his  ear: 
"  What  vow  will  you  vow  if  I  turn  to  you, 

For  my  bosom  is  faint  with  fear. 

"  If  you  would  have  me  to  show  my  face 

And  yield  to  you  frank  and  free, 
You  must  pass  your  troth  you  will  never  bed 

With  woman  unless  with  me. 

"  If  you  would  master  a  woman's  love, 
You  must  yield  to  a  woman's  pride, 
[  127  ] 


CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 
For  I  have  a  knife  within  my  hand 
That  else  will  pierce  my  side." 

Llewellyn  raised  the  cross  of  his  glaive 

And  a  mighty  vow  made  he: 
"  Be  God  my  help  as  I  keep  this  troth, 

If  you  will  but  yield  to  me!  " 

The  woman  laughed  with  a  bitter  laugh: 

"  A  mighty  oath  you  make ; 
But  you  vowed  as  deep  to  your  wedded  wife, 

And  now  that  vow  you  would  break." 

"  If  I  vowed  as  deep  to  my  wedded  wife, 

Twas  my  father  that  bade  me  to; 
But  now  I  have  won  a  bride  of  my  own, 

And  my  vow  to  her  is  true." 

She  has  turned  her  round,  she  has  shown  her  face 
On  the  greensward  where  she  lay; 
[  128  ] 


LLEWELLYN,  PRINCE  OF  CAMBRIA 
And  he  has  kneeled  him  to  look  on  her, 
For  the  evening  light  was  grey. 

He  has  seen  the  eyes  of  his  own  sweet  wife, 
He  has  seen  her  red  mouth  smile. 

He  has  bowed  his  head  to  the  dewy  grass 
And  cried,  "Woe  worth  the  while! 

"  For  I  am  shamed  that  I  did  not  know 

The  fairest  woman  alive, 
But  treated  her  ill  and  spoke  her  harsh 

Because  I  was  forced  to  wive." 

She  has  drawn  his  body  into  her  arms, 
Has  kissed  him  on  cheek  and  brow; 

"  Sith  you  have  won  a  bride  of  your  own, 
Be  faithful  to  your  vow." 

"  What  made  you  refuse  my  love  before, 

If  now  you  love  me  so? 
And  why  did  you  stain  your  black,  black  hair 

A  hue  that  I  could  not  know?  " 
[  129  ] 


CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 
"  Oh  the  love  of  yours  I  refused  before 

Was  a  love  a  woman  would  scorn, 
For  the  love  of  yours  I  refused  before 

Was  a  love  whence  hate  is  born. 

"  And  I  did  stain  my  black,  black  hair 

And  put  off  my  robes  of  pride 
That  you  might  strive  as  never  you  strove 

Ere  you  won  me  for  your  bride. 

"  For  the  love  that  falls  like  fruit  from  the  tree 

Will  lightly  be  thrown  away, 
But  the  love  that  is  bought  with  a  man's  whole  strength 

Will  haply  last  for  aye." 

She  drew  his  breast  to  her  bosom  then, 

His  lips  unto  hers  she  drew; 
"  You  have  vowed  your  vow,  you  have  won  me  now, 

And  I  will  yield  to  you." 


[  130] 


AT  MIDNIGHT 

SARA  TEASDALE 

Now  at  last  I  have  come  to  see  what  life  is, 

Nothing  is  ever  ended,  everything  only  begun, 

And  the  brave  victories  that  seem  so  splendid 
Are  never  really  won. 

Even  love,  that  I  built  my  spirit's  house  for, 
Comes  like  a  baffled  and  a  brooding  guest, 

And  art  and  fame  and  love  and  even  laughter 
Are  not  so  good  as  rest. 


[131] 


THE  EMBERS  SPEAK 

THOMAS  WALSH 

I  was  the  acorn  that  fell 

From  the  autumn  bough 
In  the  warm  earth  to  dwell; 

I  grew  to  a  branch  somehow; 
And  I  waved  in  the  nightly  storm, 

And  sheltered  the  kine 
When  the  hills  were  yellow  and  warm 

With  the  noon  divine. 

I,  too,  'mid  the  sheathing  moss 

Felt  the  ax's  blow, 
And  fell,  with  a  thunderous  loss 

Of  the  stars  I  know 
And  the  clouds  that  sift  no  more 

Through  my  shattered  limbs; 
Save  where  the  hearthstones  roar 

And  the  dying  ember  dims. 

[  132  ] 


LAGGARD 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

My  mind  is  very  swift  and  gay; 

She  flutters  to  and  fro, 
She  knows  a  thousand  things  to  play, 

A  thousand  roads  to  go ; 

But  oh,  my  heart  will  never  play  — 

She  sits  and  watches  still 
A  stone  she  saw  them  set  one  day 

Beside  a  low  green  hill. 


[  133  ] 


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